


221B Ravenclaw Tower

by TranscendentalStarlight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:58:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TranscendentalStarlight/pseuds/TranscendentalStarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are in their sixth year in 1990, the year before Harry Potter comes to Hogwarts. When John is faced with several attempts on his life, Sherlock has to find the villain responsible before he or she is successful in putting John out of commission for good. No slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intrigue on the Pitch

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to the fabulous J.K. Rowling and Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Conan Doyle.
> 
> I never thought I would write a crossover, but this idea hit me and I couldn’t shake it off. I have not seen any fanfictions or fanart where John and Sherlock are in the same house, so I put them both in Ravenclaw. Many thanks to my friend SK for her feedback and encouragement. Also, John and Sherlock’s wandwoods reflect facets of their characters. If you are interested, check out the list of wandwoods and cores that was originally posted on Pottermore. Happy reading!

“No, John.”

“I haven’t even asked you anything yet.”

“You’re going to ask me to come to your Quidditch match tomorrow, even though you know I abhor the sport and am extremely preoccupied with this analysis of poison potencies.” 

John snapped his mouth shut angrily when he realized it was hanging open. He sometimes wished Sherlock were skilled at occulemency, rather than just being the annoyingly-observant git he was almost 100% of the time. 

“Please come, Sherlock.”

“The addition of the world please does not make me any more inclined to attend,” Sherlock stated as he added lavender to the infusion of wormwood and snake fangs brewing in his cauldron. A puff of blue smoke wafted slowly up from the mixture as he reviewed a sheet of paper covered with his messy scribble. 

“It’s a big match, Sherlock. We’re facing Hufflepuff, and they’re undefeated this season.”

“Still not interested,” Sherlock replied under his breath, though he knew John would hear him.

“It’s our sixth year, and I’m captain of the team. In the all the time we’ve known each other, you’ve never come to a single match.”

Sherlock placed his wand (sycamore and dragon heartstring, 33 centimeters) on the table and spun in his chair to face John for the first time.

“Why is it so important that I come?”

“Because you’re my friend! And friends support each other, even if they don’t enjoy the same things. I would like you to be there, Sherlock. Is that really too much to ask?” John shouted. Sherlock stared at John for a moment, then turned back to his cauldron. 

“I’m too busy.”  
John let out a growl of frustration, walked around to the other side of the table, and placed his hands on top of Sherlock’s notes, forcing his friend to look at him.

“I have a busy life too. My medical tests are at the end of this year and I’m taking extra classes for Healers, yet I still find time to help you solve cases. I blew Sarah off on Valentine’s Day last year to figure out who was sending anonymous Howlers. We also missed the Halloween feast so you could figure out who had stolen Hagrid’s pumpkins, only to find out the Thestrals had eaten them. And to top it all off, I spent all of Christmas day, after you convinced me to stay at school over break to keep you company, hunting down the extensive Weasley family’s stolen sweaters. I think you owe me one lousy Quidditch match.”

“The answer is still no, John.” 

John emitted a strangled sigh, but then a resigned look came over his face and his shoulders drooped. He ran a hand through his hair.

“Fine. Don’t even know why I bother. Sorry for wasting your time.” Sherlock didn’t respond; he just kept adding newt tails to his potion. John looked down at his friend for a moment and then headed toward the boy’s dormitories. At the foot of the stairs, John glanced back at Sherlock once more and then trudged up the stairs. 

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and stared off into the darkness of the empty common room. The silence didn’t last long. Molly came down from the girl’s dormitory a moment later, sporting a pair of cat pajama bottoms and a Puddlemere United t-shirt. Sherlock barely managed to smother a groan. Molly was in her fourth year and had an annoying tendency of turning up at the worst moments. The Hoopers were family friends of the Holmeses, so Sherlock tolerated her presence, to an extent.

Molly timidly approached Sherlock. “I couldn’t help but overhear your and John’s conversation,” she started. 

I’m sure you couldn’t, he thought to himself.

Molly sat down at the table across from him. “Sherlock…well…um…you weren’t being very nice,” she blurted.

“I’m never nice,” Sherlock responded, frowning at the watery consistency of the potion that was supposed to be custard-like at this point.

“Well, meaner than usual,” Molly countered, giggling nervously. “Why won’t you go to the match tomorrow?” Sherlock sighed dramatically.

“As I told John, I don’t enjoy Quidditch and I am busy,” he explained through clenched teeth.

“Do you think John enjoys the violin?” Molly asked unfazed by his tone.

“Tolerably well, why?” Sherlock replied, perplexed by the sudden change in topic.

“How many of your recitals has he gone to?”

“I’ve never noticed,” he answered airily, suddenly realizing where this conversation was headed. Molly laughed.

“Sherlock, you are the most observant person I know, so I doubt you didn’t notice. I’ve been to every single one, and I always see John there.”

“I don’t see the point of all this,” Sherlock responded petulantly.

“At your last performance, John was running on three hours of sleep since you had kept him up all night solving a case. He missed dinner because of a class that ran late, and he had another full night of studying ahead of him for a Healers’ Anatomy and Physiology exam the next day. Despite that, he stayed for the whole thing and didn’t fall asleep once, at least not while you were playing.” Sherlock stared grumpily at his cauldron. He could feel Molly’s eyes on him.

“He does a lot for you, Sherlock, and all he’s asking for in return is a few hours of your time. Sarah and I are heading to the pitch after lunch tomorrow. You’re welcome to join us.” With that said, Molly got up from the chair and walked back upstairs.

Sherlock cast one final disgusted look at his potion and then waved his wand over the mixture, causing it to disappear into thin air. He groaned inwardly then rubbed his eyes. Guilt was such a pointless emotion, a complete and utter waste of time and energy. Despite this, Sherlock could not deny the nature of the feeling that had crept up on him during his conversation with Molly. Sweet, quiet little Molly who had somehow found enough guts to lecture him on his behavior. What was the world coming to? Sherlock angrily picked up his cauldron and headed up to the boy’s dormitory. Sometimes he hated having friends.

 

The next afternoon, Sherlock reluctantly found himself bedecked in Ravenclaw’s colors and sitting in the bleachers of the Quidditch pitch. Molly sat on his right, talking animatedly with Sarah and several of her friends. John’s girlfriend, though in Gryffindor, had borrowed one of Molly’s scarves and bewitched her hair to change from blue to bronze and then back again. Now she was doing the same to Molly’s locks.

“Want me to do yours too, Sherlock?” Sarah asked, waving her wand threateningly. Sherlock shot her a forced smile. John was always telling him to smile more, something about it making him look less like a serial killer.

“I’ll pass.” 

Sarah shrugged and went back to talking to Molly. Sherlock stared morosely at the field and thought longingly of his cauldron sitting empty in the dormitory. What was he doing here?

The Ravenclaw crowd stood as one as Lee Jordan’s voice echoed throughout the stadium. Molly pulled Sherlock into a standing position as well. Lee announced the Hufflepuff line-up and then Ravenclaw’s team. 

“And for Ravenclaw, Chasers Sally Donovan and Roberto Argenian, Keeper Mitchell Vesper, Beaters Veronica Rowley and Charles Eppley, Seeker Patricia Neals, and team captain, John Watson!” 

Molly and Sarah let out ear-splitting cheers as John flew onto the field. Sherlock managed a genuine smile and a small clap. That title suited John. 

After a few laps around the circumference of the pitch, John alighted on the ground. He shook hands with Hufflepuff’s captain—a stocky fifth-year by the name of Dimmock—then both boys took off into the sky to join their teams. Madame Hooch blew her whistle, and the game began. 

“Donovan takes possession of the Quaffle, dodges a Bludger hit by Oakston, now she’s gaining altitude trying to break free of Hufflepuff’s Chasers, but no, she passes to Watson in a perfect Porksoff Play! Watson heads toward the goal posts—he shoots, he scores! 10-0 Ravenclaw!”

The blue-clad Ravenclaw supporters leapt out of their seats, drowning out Lee’s commentary and leaving Sherlock looking up in confusion at the fanaticism of his housemates.

“Argenian scores on a reverse pass from Donovan. Hufflepuff takes possession and Markleby scores by faking out Vesper. Dimmock intercepts a pass from Argenian to Watson and scores again for Hufflepuff, tying up the match at 20-20. Argenian has possession once again; he’s flying toward the hoops—and oh! That couldn’t have been clean. And it’s not. Madame Hooch calls a foul on Rowley for excessive force.” 

The Ravenclaw supporters began to boo. “What are they complaining for?” Sherlock asked. “It was a flagrant foul.” Sarah shot him a look of disbelief. 

“Nobody cheers when their team commits a foul. We don’t like to admit that we were in the wrong, a sentiment I am sure you can relate to,” Sarah replied cheekily. Sherlock shot her an angry glare. “Besides, when do you know anything about Quidditch?” Sherlock pulled a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages from his robes.

“That’s John’s,” Sarah observed, though she was really not surprised. Sherlock did not seem to comprehend the concept of ownership. 

“I borrowed it from him last night.”

“More like stole it, seeing as you two weren’t on speaking terms last night,” Molly remarked quietly. Sherlock scowled at her, while Sarah laughed. Sherlock reluctantly turned his attention back to the match.

“And Calven takes the foul shot for Hufflepuff and earns another 10 points for the Badgers who take the lead. Watson has possession, breaks free of Hufflepuff’s Chasers—man he’s really flying on that Nimbus 1700—and he scores! Dimmock passes to Markleby, but he’s intercepted by Donovan who passes to Watson, and Watson scores again! Captain Watson is on fire today!”

Sherlock managed to keep up his feigned disinterest until 20 min into the game when John executed a one-handed Sloth Grip Roll to avoid a Bludger and then score, breaking the 130-130 tie. He jumped to his feet with Molly, Sarah, and the rest of the Eagle supporters. Mid-clap, Sherlock realized Molly and Sarah were staring at him in astonishment. He gave them a small grin in return.

10 minutes later, Ravenclaw had a 40-point lead, but Salvatore—Hufflepuff’s Keeper—kept blocking everything Ravenclaw’s Chasers threw at her. John had just gotten possession of the Quaffle when several things happened at once.

Out of the blue, a Bludger hit by Eppley changed course midflight and barreled straight for John’s head. John just barely managed to dodge the Bludger and it slammed into Vesper’s chest, knocking him off his broom. John dove after his fallen teammate and Madame Hooch had just begun to blow her whistle when Lee shouted, “Neals has the Snitch! Neals has the Snitch! Ravenclaw wins, 320 to 130!”

The applause from the Ravenclaws was deafening, but it slowly began to dissipate into worried murmurs as they noticed Watson and Vesper on the ground, surrounded by several professors. Dumbledore was waving his wand over the Keeper’s prone form. 

After several moments, Dumbledore conjured up a stretcher and headed off toward the castle, Ravenclaw’s team trailing behind him. The stands began to clear and Sarah, Molly, and Sherlock followed the crowd out of the stadium.

“Did anyone else notice that Bludger change direction and come straight at John?” Molly asked.

“Yeah, I did. Thank god John has good reflexes,” Sarah remarked. “I hope Vesper is alright.”

“Nobody hit that Bludger, yet it was targeted at John,” Sherlock stated. Molly looked at him in horror.

“Who would want to hurt John like that?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

“Look, I’m just as shaken up as the rest of you,” Sarah started. “But there could be a hundred other explanations for this.”

“I agree with Sherlock,” Oliver Wood—the fourth-year captain of Gryffindor’s team—said as he came up to join them. “Madame Hooch checks the equipment for tampering before every match, but in all my years playing Quidditch, I’ve never seen a Bludger act like that. Somebody wanted that Bludger to do damage.” 

“It still could have been an accident, or maybe a prank from some Hufflepuff student,” Sarah said stubbornly.

“They would have had to spell the Bludger midflight. You have no idea how fast those things move when you’re up in the air. That would take a considerable amount of skill,” Wood explained.

“A feat I doubt most students are capable of performing,” Sherlock added.

“Well,” Sarah sniffed. “I am not going to jump to conclusions until I have more data, something you of all people should understand, Sherlock.” She sped up to walk with her Gryffindor friends. Sherlock made a face at her retreating back. The three of them strode in silence into the entrance hall where Wood bid them goodbye. Molly and Sherlock headed up to the Ravenclaw common room to find Sarah waiting for them. Sherlock sat and stared at the fire, replaying the scene over and over in his mind, looking for anything he might have missed, while Sarah and Molly talked with some of the other Ravenclaws. 

About an hour later, John and the rest of the team, minus Vesper, trudged into the common room. John cleared his throat and announced, “Mitchell is going to make a full recovery. He had three broken and two cracked ribs, as well as a collapsed lung. Dumbledore managed to stabilize him until we could get him to Madame Pomfrey. She worked her magic and he should be back in action by the end of the week. We’ll be ready to crush Gryffindor in the next match of the season.”

The Ravenclaws let out a shout of excitement, the tension in the room dissipated, and the victory party began in earnest. John smiled at the people who congratulated him on the win as he made his way to the couch. He plopped down exhaustedly between Sherlock and Sarah. Sherlock wordlessly handed him a cup of tea and several Pumpkin Pasties. John accepted them with a muttered, “Thanks.”

Sherlock opened his mouth several times to barrage John with questions, but Sarah and Molly silenced him with a glance every time. John finished and looked up at his friends’ expectant faces.

“He was in pretty bad shape down there,” John said quietly, clenching his fists. “I was afraid he wasn’t going to make it.” Sarah rubbed his back and some of the tension dissolved from his shoulders as he leaned into her. 

“Sherlock thinks the Bludger was meant for you,” Sarah stated worriedly.

“That sounds like the freak. He has to see murderous intent in everything,” Sally said as she walked up to their group. Sherlock scowled at her.

“I don’t see how it could have been meant for anyone else, Sally,” John replied firmly. “Mitchell and I were the only two people in that part of the pitch, and it came too close to me to have been meant for him.”

“You mean to say that Bludger just decided to come zooming straight for your skull? Last thing I saw, Eppley had hit it towards Dimmock,” Sally asked disbelievingly. 

“That is exactly what we are suggesting, Sally, but if that is beyond your small powers of comprehension, then perhaps you should leave this to the rest of us,” Sherlock said icily. Donovan moved toward him threateningly, but John held his hands up. 

“That’s enough you two. I know it sounds crazy, Sally, but it seems to be the case.”

“Do you think someone tampered with it?” Molly asked.

“That’s what the professors were saying,” John said, running a hand through his hair. “They have to examine it more closely, but I don’t see any other explanation.”

“The question now is who would want you out of commission?” Sherlock stated. John turned to look at his friend.

“It wasn’t anybody on Hufflepuff, that’s for sure. The whole team looked crestfallen, and Dimmock’s a decent fellow; he came into the hospital wing and apologized for a good ten minutes. I don’t think they were responsible.”

“What about somebody from Gryffindor?” Molly asked. “Or maybe Slytherin. They barely beat you this year. Maybe they thought you were a threat for the cup.”

“Oliver may be a fanatic, but he wouldn’t go so far as attempted murder to win. Flint’s barely bright enough to tie his own shoes, so I doubt he could concoct a plan like this.”

Sherlock let out a laugh at John’s comment, which was entirely true.

“Yeah, but not all the Slytherins are that dumb,” Sarah said, her eyes narrowing.

“Sarah, we all know how much you love Slytherin, so let’s leave it at that,” John replied kissing her cheek. Sherlock rolled his eyes at this display.

“So, we’ve got nothing,” Sally stated.

“No,” Sherlock corrected. “We know the spellcaster was skilled, he or she would have to be in order to charm a Bludger in midair. This rules out most of the younger students. The suspect is unlikely from Ravenclaw as it would be irrational to take out our own captain. Also, we know they either had to be present at the match or have an accomplice who was present at the match as the Bludgers passed Madame Hooch’s pre-game inspection. And, in a few days time, we will have the nature of the spell cast on the Bludger. I would hardly call that nothing, Sally.”

Sally shot him a look that clearly said, one day you’ll get what’s coming to you, and then walked away from the group to go talk to her Slytherin boyfriend, Anderson.

“Who let him in here?” Sherlock asked disgustedly looking over at the pair.

“Sherlock, leave it,” John ordered wearily. “I am not in the mood to hear you belittle Anderson tonight.” Sherlock frowned and sighed resignedly. Silence fell until John looked up to see Sarah and Molly staring at him with concerned expressions on their faces.

“Look, I’m not going to worry about this until we have more information. There’s still a slim chance it was an accident. Can we please just enjoy the party?” John reasoned. 

“Of course,” Sarah replied, kissing John on the lips, eliciting another eye roll from Sherlock and cheers from the Ravenclaws who were looking for their fearless leader to join in the festivities. 

Several hours later, the party had finally wound down. Sherlock had retreated to the safety of the dormitory long ago, and was reading over a spellbook. John collapsed onto his bed, which sat next to Sherlock’s.

“That’s a new record for you.”

“Hmmmm?”

“You socialized for nearly two hours; you usually only last thirty minutes,” John said turning onto his side to face his friend.

“Gold star for me,” Sherlock replied, still intent on his book.

“Thanks for coming today.”

“Of course. I couldn’t pass up the chance to see you in all your glory,” Sherlock replied sarcastically.

“Seriously, Sherlock. Thanks.” Sherlock looked up from the pages and gave John a small, genuine smile.

“You’re welcome. It wasn’t an entire waste of my afternoon.”

“Oh really?”

“No. I got a new case.” John groaned. 

“This does not become a case until we have more information, Sherlock. I don’t want you and Molly and Sarah looking at me like I’m a dead man walking.”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied sulkily. “But when we discover it wasn’t an accident…”

“If,” John corrected. “If, we find out it wasn’t an accident, you can pursue this mystery to your heart’s content. Now, I am going to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight John.” John turned off the light and dove under the covers, placing his wand (cypress and unicorn hair, 26.5 centimeters) on the bedside table. A few minutes later, Sherlock spoke.

“I’m glad that Bludger didn’t smash into your skull and blow your brains into the stands.”

“Me too. Now goodnight for real,” John replied unfazed.

“It would have created quite a mess, and I just bought this sweater,” Sherlock added, grinning behind the pages of his book. 

John responded by throwing his extra pillow at Sherlock’s head. Sherlock began to chortle, quietly. John joined in and soon they were laughing so hard they were almost crying. They carried on like that until the other boys told them to shut up and go to sleep.

Both boys stifled their laughter and obeyed their classmates’ command, worries pushed aside until the morning.


	2. The Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to SK and snapemartyr for their feedback and suggestions!
> 
> I took some creative liberties with the mechanics for the doors guarding common rooms as Rowling never really explains they work. Enjoy!

On Thursday morning, John and Sherlock were in the library working on one of Professor Snape's torturous essays. Sherlock had finished half an hour ago and was now loudly turning the pages of several library books—eliciting murderous glares from Madame Pince—while slowly pushing his scroll in John's direction. John pointedly ignored him until the essay had entirely covered up his own.

"Sherlock," he whispered angrily as he pushed the paper away. "I am not copying off you."

"But John," Sherlock whined. "I have witnessed Anderson's mind work faster than you are writing this essay."

"Unlike you, I am not a potions prodigy."

"I need a case, John," Sherlock replied, ignoring his friend's snarky reply. "Only two this entire semester, and we solved one on the train. This is the worst term ever."

"My heart bleeds for you," John said, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's melodramatics. "Why don't you go brew a draught or elixir or something?"

"Boring."

"Well, then, go practice turning handbags into hedgehogs for Transfiguration."

"Dull."

"Go explore that secret passage you and the Weasley twins found last week."

"Excellent idea, John. Let's go." John shot him a dark look.

"I am not leaving this seat until I finish. It is not my job to entertain you." Sherlock gave him a look of mock surprise.

"Why do I keep you around then?"

"I wonder that myself sometimes."

Sherlock opened his mouth to make a retort when his eyes lit up.

"Some intrigue at last," he murmured. John turned to see Professor Flitwick walking toward them.

"Mr. Watson," he stated. "I need you to come with me to the Headmaster's office at once." John hurriedly gathered his things, noticing Flitwick's grave expression. When John stood up, Sherlock did as well. Flitwick nodded in his direction.

"You may as well come too, Mr. Holmes."

The trio left the library and headed to the gargoyle statue that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's domain.

"Chocolate drizzle," Flitwick announced, and the gargoyle jumped aside as the wall behind it split open, revealing the moving spiral staircase that was by now a familiar sight for John and Sherlock. They followed their head of house up the stairs. Flitwick knocked on the door and Dumbledore's voice rang out, "Enter."

Even though they had been in Dumbledore's office many times throughout their careers at Hogwarts, John and Sherlock still looked around with wonder every time. It seemed the headmaster always had some new magical gadget on display.

Professors McGonagall, Sprout, and Snape were standing behind Dumbledore who was seated at his desk. Flitwick went to stand with them while Dumbledore beckoned to the boys to sit down.

"Mr. Watson. Mr. Holmes. I wish I had called you in on pleasanter business, but alas, that is not the case." Dumbledore paused for a moment, looking at the two of them from over the lenses of his half-moon glasses. "I regret to inform you, Mr. Watson, but the Bludger that wounded Mr. Vesper, and which we can only assume was meant for you, was indeed cursed."

"With dark magic, I'm afraid," Flitwick added. "I put the protective charms on the equipment myself, and it would have taken a powerful witch or wizard to overcome them." John began to clench and unclench his hands. As if sensing his distress, Fawkes flew over and placed his head on John's shoulder.

"So there's no chance it was a freak accident?" John asked, while he slowly stroked Fawkes' feathers.

"Unfortunately, no," Dumbledore replied slowly.

"Your safety, Mr. Watson, is our top priority," Professor McGonagall stated. "We think it best you avoid the Quidditch pitch until we have sorted out this mess."

"No," John said firmly, shaking his head. "We would be disqualified; I can't do that to the team."

"Is Quidditch really worth losing your life over?" Professor Sprout asked incredulously.

"No, but letting down my team isn't an option."

"It seems to me," Sherlock piped up. "That the culprit would be foolish to attack John in the same manner as before. They know we will take precautions to ensure a similar attempt on John's life would fail."

"Do you have a better suggestion, Mr. Holmes?" McGonagall queried.

"I believe Mr. Holmes is suggesting we wait until Mr. Watson is attacked again," Snape stated slowly, speaking for the first time. Sprout and Flitwick looked at him in horror, while McGonagall just looked thoughtful.

"It would be an effective way to test if this was an isolated incident or if there is some darker purpose behind it all," she mused.

"Perhaps we should ask Mr. Watson what he thinks," Flitwick exclaimed angrily. "I will not risk my student's life on a whim." They all turned to John who answered immediately.

"I'll do it. I don't fancy hiding in a hole until this all blows over. Sherlock's right. We can't catch the person responsible until we have more information." The assembled professors nodded gravely.

"We shall not leave you completely unprotected, John," Dumbledore said, standing up from his chair. "Mr. Holmes, if you would wait outside for a few moments." Sherlock reluctantly trudged out of Dumbledore's office and loitered next to the gargoyle statue. John came down the steps after about ten minutes. Sherlock looked quizzically at his friend.

"That," John started. "Was the most intimidating and surreal experience of my entire life."

"What happened?"

"They all gathered in a circle with me in the center and started weaving these complex spells around me. I didn't recognize a word of it, but apparently it will shield me from most curses and some physical blows for a—"

John let out a yelp as Sherlock's jinx went whizzing past his ear.

"What was that for!?"

"I was testing your defenses," Sherlock replied calmly. "They work."

"Of course they bloody work! Look at who cast them!"

"Still," Sherlock sniffed. "One must be thorough." John just growled and continued walking. Sherlock proceeded to sporadically throw spells, quills, and wads of paper at John from different angles as they headed down the hallway. The defensive charms deflected all of them and John suffered the abuse in silence until Sherlock attempted to heave his Transfiguration text at him. John caught it and turned to face Sherlock.

"Enough," he hissed.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, climbing up the dizzying spiral staircase that led to the Ravenclaw common room. They reached the landing only to be met by a large crowd standing outside the door, which was ajar. The students turned as one when they heard John and Sherlock come up the stairs. They stared at John with a mixture of fear and pity in their eyes. John stiffened and a look of panic flashed across his face.

"What's happened?"

Molly came out of the crowd and pointed in the direction of the common room.

"Oh, John…I'm sorry…so sorry," she said unable to speak coherently through her tears. John raced through the doorway, Sherlock right on his heels. He pulled up short as he turned to the stairway leading to the boy's dormitory. Hovering above the archway, spelled out in cloudy, luminescent green letters, were the words, "Next time I won't miss, John Watson."

Professor Flitwick came barreling in a few moments later to find John trying to calm Molly down and Sherlock scrutinizing the ghostly writing. With Flitwick's help, Molly regained her composure and found her voice again.

"I was coming back from Ancient Runes to grab a few things before lunch and the door to the common room was open, which I thought was odd, but I was in a hurry so I went in anyway. The common room was empty, but then I turned and saw the message hovering there and I just froze. Some other students came in behind me and we all thought it best to wait in the hall, and then someone sent for you, professor, and then Sherlock and John came up, and…" Molly broke down into tears again, while John patted her shoulder.

Dumbledore and McGonagall strode in, and McGonagall let out a gasp of surprise at the sight of the threat.

"Prefects, please clear everyone out of the common room and into the hallway, excepting Miss Hooper, Mr. Watson, and Mr. Holmes. And someone please send for Professor Snape," Dumbledore ordered calmly.

He turned to Sherlock and John. "Two times in one day, gentlemen, that must be a new record," he joked, giving them a small wink, eliciting a weak smile from John. Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Flitwick began to examine the writing. Sherlock edged over to John who was leaning wearily against the fireplace mantel.

"Does that writing look familiar to you?" he asked.

"Sherlock," John sighed. "I'm not really in the mood to play guess-what-you've-deduced right now."

"The color and cloudy appearance don't remind you of anything?" John remained silent for a moment and then looked at Sherlock with sudden comprehension.

"The Dark Mark. Not that I've ever seen it in person, but that's how it looks in pictures."

"Exactly, but I find it very unlikely that a former Death Eater found his/her way into Hogwarts to leave you a threatening message."

"Who did it then?" John mused aloud.

"Haven't the foggiest at the moment," Sherlock replied, rubbing his hands together. John rolled his eyes at the look of excitement on his friend's face.

"Please do try to remember that someone may be trying to kill me," he muttered darkly.

"I know who did it," a voice stated from above the mantel. John, Sherlock, Molly and the professors looked up at the picture of Mrs. Hudson, the previous Ravenclaw head of house who had retired several years ago and now owned an apartment complex for Ministry officials.

"You saw the caster?" John asked. Mrs. Hudson nodded proudly.

"Yes, I did. I sometimes like to poke my head in to see how the tower's holding up. I stopped by this afternoon to gossip with Adriana Turner about something. All of the other portraits were empty, which isn't unusual around lunchtime since they like to go up to the painting of the satyrs' picnic on the second-floor landing. They always have such lovely sandwiches."

"The culprit, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock interrupted somewhat testily.

"Oh right, sorry dear," she twittered. "Anyway, I saw that lovely Asian girl. She's always so polite to me. I think she's in her first year. She looked around to make sure she was alone. I pretended to be asleep in my frame. When I cracked my eyes open again, she was leaving that horrible message." Mrs. Hudson finished and looked down at John and Sherlock in concern.

"Well done, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied grinning. "Quick, John! You're good at remembering tedious things like people's names. Who fits that description?" John spluttered, but Molly saved him from answering.

"That would have to be Cho Chang, but she's so nice. I can't see her doing something like this."

"Find Miss Chang and bring her here immediately," Dumbledore ordered, addressing Donovan and the other Ravenclaw prefect in the hallway.

"Oh, and Sherlock, dear. Mycroft asked me to make sure you're eating regularly and taking your studies seriously," Mrs. Hudson added. Mycroft, a junior Ministry official, had taken up lodgings in Mrs. Hudson's complex. Sherlock scowled.

"You can tell my brother his concern is neither necessary nor looked for."

"Just do be careful, boys. And John, keep your chin up, dear. It will all be alright." John gave Mrs. Hudson a small grin and a nod.

A quarter of an hour later, Sally and the other prefect returned with Cho. She gasped when she saw the message, which still glowed with a sickening light.

"Miss Chang," Professor Flitwick said gravely. "May I see your wand?" Cho timidly handed it to her head of house. "Prior Incantato," he muttered. The assembled crowd let out a gasp as a miniature version of the smoky message floated out of Cho's wand. She looked at it in horror.

"I swear it wasn't me," she cried, tears welling up in her eyes. Dumbledore placed a calming hand on her shoulder.

"We are not accusing you of anything, Miss Chang. Did you enter the common room within the last hour or so?"

"Yes."

"Tell us what happened."

"I-I…was climbing the staircase to drop off some books before lunch. I told my friend Marietta to save me a seat. Then I got to the door and the knocker asked me what worships the moon but can't stand its light, and I answered werewolf and then…" Cho trailed off, looking panicked. "And then I can't remember anything else until I got to the Great Hall." Dumbledore shared a grave look with the other professors.

"You have to believe me; I didn't do it. I love Ravenclaw and our Quidditch team."

"We do believe you, Miss Chang," Flitwick replied soothingly.

"Albus, it sounds like the Imperius curse, but that can't be," McGonagall whispered, but John and Sherlock overheard her.

"This is most troubling, Minerva," he murmured in response. He turned to Flitwick. "Filius, please escort Miss Chang to the hospital wing. I would like Madame Pomfrey to see to her. Severus, please dispose of that message." Snape, who had come in several minutes previously, nodded and with a flick of his wand, the words vanished. Dumbledore spun to face John and Sherlock.

"Mr. Watson, would you like to rethink your earlier decision?"

"No, sir," John answered firmly. "I'd rather take my chances out there. I don't much fancy the idea of sitting cocooned in the dormitory for the rest of the term."

"Which current circumstances have proven is no safer than the rest of the school," Sherlock commented under his breath. A genuine flash of weariness passed over Dumbledore's face.

"As much as this situation troubles me, I think you are right. Hiding you won't solve the problem. This gives me a grave sense of foreboding, Mr. Watson. It would give me peace of mind if you were to avoid walking around unaccompanied." John gave a genuine smile at that.

"That shouldn't be a problem. Now that I'm Sherlock's new case, I doubt he'll give me a moment's peace," John answered. Sherlock was staring off into space and didn't respond to John's comment. Dumbledore smiled and then swept out of the room.

Some of the other students gave John encouraging pats on the back or words of comfort and then filed out to lunch. Molly hugged John and asked if he needed anything. He shook his head, and she hugged him again. She angrily turned to Sherlock, startling him out of his reverie.

"If you let anything happen to him to make your case more interesting, I will never forgive you," and then she marched out of the common room. The boys shared a moment of surprised silence.

"Well, shall we go to lunch?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not really hungry."

"Excellent. We can do some investigating then."

"What is there to investigate?"

"We need to find out who cast the Imperius curse on Miss Chang. I find it very odd that the door was hanging open when Molly got to the scene. Usually it closes right after a student enters, except for when—"

"There are other students on the stairway or landing," John finished. "Like when Sarah or Molly comes up behind us on the stairs. The door usually stays open." Sherlock looked a bit put off by the interruption but continued.

"Which means that someone had to be on the stairs or near the door when Molly came up, meaning she was on the landing at the same time as the true culprit."

"But she didn't see anything."

"Because she wasn't looking," Sherlock said as he dashed through the door.

Several statues of various famous witches and wizards lined stood outside in the corridor. Sherlock walked around them closely examining the ground and miming spell casting in the direction of the door.

"The person who cast the spell was most likely not a Ravenclaw, or they would have just entered the common room by themselves."

"Or maybe they were being clever. Trying to hide their tracks."

"A possible, but unlikely explanation. The caster would have needed to be in a hiding place out of sight of the stairs with a clear view of the door. There is only one statue that provides both," Sherlock explained, stopping to look behind the stone figure of Ptolemy.

"Look, John. Here in the dust. Footprints."

"Those were left by a girl's shoe." Sherlock looked at John in surprise. John frowned back.

"I'm not a complete idiot. The heel marks are small, like the heels on Mary Janes. Quite obvious, really." Sherlock looked at John in annoyance and then went back to examining the floor.

"So this eliminates roughly half the student body," John sighed.

"47.6% actually." John rolled his eyes. "In addition, she is roughly 150 to 170 cm tall, and she was crouching on her toes for most of her vigil."

"So we're looking for a short female who has a vendetta against me. That shouldn't be too difficult," he stated sarcastically.

"The next attack will give us more data," Sherlock replied, standing up.

"Let's just hope it's not successful," John added.

"It won't be."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm on the case now, and I don't much want to have to face the combined wrath of Molly and Sarah if I let you get killed."

"I feel so reassured," John said flatly, but he was grinning. Sherlock shot John a look of fond annoyance, and they headed off to class, each hoping the culprit would not accomplish the message's promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Sherlock Holmes can identify a person's height by looking at footprints, but I figured young Holmes wouldn't have it down to an exact science yet, and I don't want to give away too many clues this early on, hence the range.


	3. Potions Problems

After their discovery, John and Sherlock headed in silence to the dungeons for a double session of potions with Slytherin. Professor Flitwick had offered to excuse John from class, but John had just shaken his head resolutely.

"Can't afford to miss it, but thanks, professor."

An hour into the class, Sherlock started wishing Flitwick had been more insistent. Usually, John was fairly proficient at Potions, not as skilled as Sherlock of course, but John had received an "exceeds expectations" in his O.W.L. Today, though, he was a mess. He had knocked over a vial of Lethe river water and a jar of ashwinder eggs. Earlier in the class, his restorative draught had emitted a noxious gray smoke instead of the desired purple sparks, eliciting a loss of ten points from Ravenclaw in addition to the five Snape had taken earlier for the dropped ingredients.

Sherlock had been whispering the steps needed to salvage the potion, but, by the end of class, John's cauldron contained a navy blue semi-solid concoction that looked nothing like the desired result. Snape began his routine sweep of the room, doling out negative comments to the Ravenclaws and praising the Slytherins. Sherlock knew his potion was perfect, but John was staring down as his desk, boring holes into the wood with his eyes. Snape came over and peered into John's cauldron.

"Well, well, Mr. Watson. You want to be Healer, yet you can't even brew a simple draught of restoration. How unfortunate. You may want to reconsider your career pathway. Fifteen points more from Ravenclaw, I think." All of the Ravenclaws stared at Snape with hate in their eyes, while John kept his cast downward. Snape nodded at Sherlock's cauldron and then glided away to the next desk. Sherlock sighed inwardly. He and Snape had a mutual respect for one another, and Snape liked Sherlock as much as he possibly could, considering Sherlock was not a member of his house. Alas, all good things must come to an end.

"That hardly seems fair. John has one bad day and suddenly he should toss aside his dreams of becoming a Healer? What's that you've got in your cauldron, Anderson? You don't have the excuse of a death threat hanging over you head, yet you've managed to make a right mess of things as usual. What color would you say that is, John? Mustard yellow? Last time I checked, restorative draughts were supposed to be sky blue."

Snape, and the class as a whole, froze. John stared up at Sherlock in disbelief. Snape slowly turned around.

"What was that, Mr. Holmes?"

"I just find it fascinating, professor, that Anderson never fails to produce putrid potions, yet his pathetic efforts continue to earn points for Slytherin. I've heard of trolls with more talent." Anderson sprang out of his chair, gripping his wand tightly. John and Sherlock responded in turn.

"Enough," Snape said, raising his voice infinitesimally. All three boys reluctantly sat down, shooting daggers at each other with their eyes.

"Twenty more points from Ravenclaw. You boys may soon set a record for most points lost in a single class. In addition, you and Mr. Watson will both be serving detention with me Saturday evening." Sherlock made as if to object, but John slowly shook his head and Sherlock backed down.

The end of class saved them from further punishment. Anderson shot them a look burning with malice as he stormed out of the classroom.

"One day he is going to snap and come after both of us."

"I'm not too worried. Have you seen his aim?"

John chuckled softly, and the two walked in silence for a bit.

"That was…what you did back there…it was…thanks," John stated rather awkwardly, shooting Sherlock a look of gratitude. "Although, as we speak, Snape is probably obliterating your name from his good books with a knife." Sherlock waved away the thanks.

"I never like to pass up an opportunity to harass Anderson, and being in the good books is rather dull."

"Yeah, but so is detention."

"We'll find a way out of it." John let out a snort.

"I doubt even the Minister of Magic could get us out of this one. But maybe Mycroft could grant us an audience," John jokingly mused.

"We are not asking for my brother's help," Sherlock replied sulkily.

"Snape's probably going to make us clean up the mess the first years make on Friday," John groaned. "They always turn the storage cupboards into disaster zones." Sherlock grunted in assent.

Upon reaching the Great Hall, the boys tossed their bags onto the table and sat down heavily. John stared mournfully at his wizard-made watch.

"I'm starving, and dinner's not for another ten minutes." Sherlock chuckled softly.

"What?"

"Your appetite's back, which means you must be feeling better."

"Great deduction. I would rather start every morning with a death threat than face Snape's wrath again, and all of this adrenaline makes me hungry." Sherlock let out a snort of amusement. Sarah interrupted their banter by running up to them and throwing her arms around John.

"Are you all right?" she asked, pulling back and looking into John's face intently.

"I'm fine," John replied, squeezing her hand. "A little shaken up, but that's to be expected." Satisfied for the moment, Sarah turned and gave Sherlock a much less enthusiastic, but sincere hug. Sherlock froze and shot John a look of bewilderment. John just shrugged.

"And you," Sarah stated after releasing Sherlock. "I heard about how you stood up for him in Snape's class. Brilliant."

"Word travels that quickly, eh?" John observed. Sherlock was still staring at Sarah as if she had lost her mind.

"Of course," Sarah answered. "I wish I could have been there. The look on Snape's face. And Anderson! I bet he didn't take too kindly to your calling him a troll, although you're really just stating the obvious."

"Exactly. If he doesn't want to be compared to a troll, he shouldn't act like one," Sherlock sniffed.

"Speak of the devil," John murmured as Anderson and Donovan strode into the Great Hall. Sally shot them a look of disdain, while Anderson pointedly ignored them as they went to sit down at the Slytherin table.

"She's not going to be pleased at practice this weekend," John sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Her life would be a lot simpler if she wasn't dating the biggest idiot in the school," Sarah commented.

"Anderson's really not that bad. He can be quite nice," Molly piped in as she joined them. Sarah, John, and Sherlock looked at her as if she had just said being a Squib was not the worst fate that could ever befall someone. Molly looked a bit cowed and quickly changed the subject.

"Any news from the professors about the message, John?"

"That's right," Sarah said, swatting John on the arm. "I had to hear about that from Oliver and then I worried about you all afternoon because Merlin forbid you tell your girlfriend about threats on your life."

"I'm sorry. I meant to come and find you, but Sherlock and I were investigating and then we had Potions and…At last!" John exclaimed as food magically appeared on the tables. Sarah rolled her eyes, but let the matter rest as John began heaping food onto his plate. Sherlock ignored the spread, eyes narrowed as he scanned the Great Hall instead.

"You're not hungry, Sherlock?" Molly asked.

"I'm looking for suspects."

"But you've got nothing to go on," Sarah stated.

"We're looking for a girl," John said in between large bites of food.

"Oh really?"

"Yes, Sarah," Sherlock snapped. "We found a shoeprint in the dust outside Ravenclaw Tower by a statue that would have provided the real culprit with the perfect position from which to cast the Imperius curse on Miss Chang."

"Cho was Imperisued?!" Molly squeaked.

"Dumbledore and McGonagall seem to think so, and it would make sense," John added as he began to spoon more food onto a second plate, which he then pushed in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock glanced at it disdainfully and then went back to searching the crowd.

"Sherlock."

"I'm on a case, John."

"Yes, and as your client, I demand that you eat so you can dedicate your full faculties to the task."

"I don't need food to use my full faculties."

"Sherlock, I have enough on my plate without having to worry about you passing out from hunger. Just eat," John hissed through gritted teeth. Sherlock sighed dramatically and picked up his fork. Minutes later, the food was gone.

After both dinner and dessert had disappeared, Dumbledore stood up and a hush automatically fell over the room.

"As many of you know, a sinister message was left in Ravenclaw Tower today. That message threatened harm to Mr. John Watson. I hope this is nothing more than a prank, and if it is, I advise the instigator to cease immediately and turn him or herself in. If any of you have any information, please speak to me or your head of house," Dumbledore finished solemnly, and after a moment's pause he smiled at the assembled students. "On a lighter note, congratulations to the Hogwarts choir for their win at the Magical Music Festival last weekend. I heard they were marvelous." Dumbledore paused for the scattered applause. "And now, I will bid a good evening to you all."

John had sat very straight during Dumbledore's announcement, eyes riveted on the headmaster, ignoring the hundreds of faces turned toward him. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked around at everyone, scowling heavily at those who stared at John with insensitive curiosity. Now that he had finished speaking, students began slowly filing out of the Great Hall, shooting the occasional glance at the Ravenclaw table. Mike Stamford and Greg Lestrade—a Hufflepuff studying to be a Healer and Hufflepuff Head Boy, respectively—sat down in the now vacant spots across from the group.

"Bloody hell, John. What's all this about death threats?"

"No idea, Greg. Just walked up to the common room to find 'Next time I won't miss, John Watson' hovering in the air."

"First the Bludger and now this? Do you think they're connected?" Mike asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes, eliciting an elbow in the ribs from John.

"It seems like it, but we don't have any real proof yet."

"So, what do you think, Sherlock? This seems right up your alley," Lestrade queried.

"Yes, quite." Sherlock answered stiffly. He liked Lestrade well enough—the boy had even helped them out on several cases—but a future Auror ought to have better developed deductive abilities. "We know the suspect is a short female. She is most likely not from Ravenclaw, as she used the Imperius curse on Miss Chang to gain access to the tower and leave the message."

"Unforgiveable curses at Hogwarts. They'll be sending Ministry officials to investigate at this rate," Mike whistled.

"And here they come now," John murmured, staring at the doors. Sherlock turned his head to follow John's gaze.

"You cannot be serious. Mycroft, what are you doing here?" Sherlock asked disgustedly as his brother and two Ministry goons came up to them.

"Well, my dear brother, I'm here to inquire about the incident that occurred earlier today."

"The case is under control, so keep your bureaucratic nonsense out of Hogwarts and go back to London."

"If that were true, I wouldn't be here. Did Mrs. Hudson give you my message?"

"Yes, and it seems she is feeding you too well. You must have gained at least five pounds since I last saw you." Mycroft smiled frostily at Sherlock and then turned to John.

"John, always a pleasure. I need to go and speak with Professor Dumbledore, but afterward I would appreciate a moment of your time."

"Of course," John replied, nodding. Sherlock stared daggers at Mycroft's retreating back.

"That bloke's your brother? He's much nicer than you. Seems he got all the charm in the family," Lestrade observed. Sherlock just glared at him.

"Mycroft's charming on the surface, yes, but he's the type who'd be plotting how to have you killed while pouring you a cup of tea. Sherlock's probably the only person who can screw with him and not end up with a bullet in his brain." Mike, Lestrade, and Molly looked at John in confusion.

"And not end up dead. Sorry, it's a Muggle figure of speech," John explained.

While they waited for Mycroft's return, John, Sarah, Mike, Molly, and Lestrade started talking about Quidditch, while Sherlock ignored them. He was startled out of his reverie when Cho came up to them.

"Cho, how are you feeling?" Molly asked.

"Fine. A bit embarrassed really. Everyone's making such a fuss."

"Not everyone's subjected to dark magic like that, especially not nowadays," Sarah remarked. "They're just worried."

"I suppose so, but it wasn't my life being threatened." Cho turned to John. "Captain Watson, I just wanted to apologize. I know I wasn't myself, but I still feel terrible and I hope you won't hold it against me at Quidditch tryouts next year." John chuckled.

"It wasn't your fault, so stop worrying about that. I will most definitely not hold it against you. What position do you play?"

"Seeker."

"Neals is leaving after this year, so we will be needing a new Seeker. I look forward to seeing you fly, Miss Chang." Cho's face split into a gigantic grin.

"Thank you, Captain. I'll see you around." Cho made to leave.

"Miss Chang," Sherlock called and Cho turned around. "Did you happen to see anyone when you were attacked."

"No," Cho replied, her face falling. "The professors asked the same thing, but no, I didn't."

"Did you hear anything? A voice uttering the spell?"

"No, sorry. There was nothing as far as I remember, but if anything comes to me I'll let you know."

Sherlock stared after her thoughtfully. John turned to his friend with a questioning look in his eyes. Sherlock met his gaze. "Nonverbal spell," Sherlock uttered.

"What?" Molly asked.

"Cho didn't hear anything, but she was alone in the hallway, so she should have been able to make out a voice casting the spell. That means the curse could have been nonverbal," John explained.

"Which would require a considerable mastery of magic, something most students would not be capable of," Sherlock added.

"Then how did they get into the school?"

"That is the question, John," Sherlock replied thoughtfully.

"The way you two feed off of each other is ridiculous," Sarah commented.

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed. "Bit spooky actually." Before Sherlock could respond with a scathing comment, Mycroft returned.

"John, could I have a word in private."

"Anything you need to say to John you can say in front of all of us," Sherlock stated, crossing his arms. Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Very well. It appears that someone means to do you very serious harm, John."

"As if that wasn't obvious," Sherlock mumbled.

"We would like to provide you with security since you insist on remaining at Hogwarts, rather foolishly I might add."

"While I appreciate the gesture, Mycroft, I can't accept it."

"I think you are underestimating the severity of your situation."

"You know, I really don't think I am. Someone would like to see me dead and has already tried to kill me with a Bludger. I know what's at stake, but I'm not willing to sacrifice my education for this lowlife," John argued, his eyes flashing dangerously. Sarah put a hand on his arm, and John calmed down a bit.

"If those are your feelings, then I suppose there is nothing I can do. Are you sure I can't convince you to accept?" Mycroft asked.

"Positive. I trust Dumbledore and the staff to handle this. Thank you, though, Mycroft. Truly."

"Very well. Good luck, John. Until next time, Sherlock. Good evening, Miss Hooper, Miss Sawyer, Mr. Lestrade, Mr. Stamford." Sherlock frowned until the doors of the Great Hall closed behind his brother.

"How did he know my name?" Lestrade asked worriedly.

"Mycroft just knows things," Molly sighed, used by now to the Holmes boys' dramatics.

"Well, now that my brother is done wasting our time, how about a game of wizard's chess back in the common room?" Sherlock asked.

"If you're in the mood to lose," John replied, grinning. "How many times have you beaten me again?"

"Three," Sherlock reluctantly mumbled. John looked at him sternly. "Alright. Twice. I cheated the third time." Mike and Lestrade grinned, while Molly and Sarah laughed out loud.

"We'll see you later, John," Lestrade stated, clapping John on the back as he got up to leave. "Mike and I will keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

"We're here for you, mate," Mike added, standing up as well.

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Have a good night," Molly shouted after them. Lestrade turned and smiled back at her, causing Molly's face to turn a bright cherry red. The four of them stood up. Sarah and Molly let Sherlock and John get a bit ahead of them before launching into conversation.

"Doesn't Sherlock hate wizards chess?" Sarah asked quizzically.

"Absolutely abhors it," Molly replied. "Usually John has to either beg or threaten him to play."

"This is most unlike him. Should we be concerned?" Sarah queried. Molly laughed.

"We both tell Sherlock to be nicer to John, and then we freak out when he does just that."

"I'm not freaking out. I'm just surprised. Just when you think you have him figured out, Sherlock goes and throws you for a loop. I don't know how John stands it." Sarah added. Molly giggled again.

"Life is never boring with those two."

The remainder of November and the first part of December passed without incident. Potions with Snape became a nightmare now that both John and Sherlock had fallen out of his good graces. Ravenclaw's chances of winning the House Cup grew slimmer every week. The Quidditch Cup began to seem obtainable, though. The match against Gryffindor went down without any near death encounters. Ravenclaw won by such a large margin Wood couldn't look John in the eye for a week.

The first trip to Hogsmeade had come and gone, although Sherlock had been forced to spend most of the trip with Mike Stamford. John had been out with Sarah, Molly, and Lestrade on some sort of "double date," which sounded miserably dull to Sherlock, but no one ever asked him. At least at the end, they had all met up in the Three Broomsticks for butterbeer, making the day somewhat enjoyable.

John had spent the first two weeks of December preparing for his preliminary Healer exams. The combination of stress and being cooped up in the school with a bored Sherlock had resulted in several spats between the two of them, one escalating to the point that John and Sherlock had stopped talking to each for four days.

Now, tests over, Sherlock and John found themselves sitting in the common room the night before Christmas break, staring at the fire.

"I don't understand why I can't just stay here for vacation," Sherlock complained for the umpteenth time that day.

"Because your parents want to see you. You can't stay at school every year."

"Mother wouldn't have insisted I return home if you had only agreed to stay with me. She and father like you for whatever reason." John ignored the insult.

"I want to go and see my family, and Harry's invited us to Clara's ranch after Christmas."

"How tedious."

"Quit your grumbling. There's no getting out of it now. You can always come visit me. My dad will be pleased to see you."

"Your father is an excellent man."

"Even if he is a Muggle?" Sherlock shot John a look.

"You know I have no prejudice against Muggles. They've invented lots of clever things. The scientific method, electricity, microscopes, trains."

"He's always asking about you when I go home. He likes to hear about our cases."

They fell into silence for several minutes.

"Well, I'm going to head up," John said, getting up stiffly from his armchair.

"Me too." Sherlock followed suit, standing up gracefully like always, eliciting an eye roll from John. The boys headed up to the dormitory. Their floor was deserted, as most of their classmates had left early. John finished packing, while Sherlock eyed his half-empty trunk with disgust. John looked over his shoulder at his friend as he pulled the sheets back on his bed and began to climb into it.

"Staring at it will not—what are you—" John yelled as Sherlock yanked him away from the four-poster, the bed bursting into flames milliseconds later. John and Sherlock stared at the blaze for a moment before John shook himself and shouted Aguamenti! Sherlock joined in, but the fire just burned brighter. Finally, Sherlock rushed to his trunk, pulled out a flask of purple liquid, and threw its contents on the bed. The flames died instantly.

"What was that?"

"A creation of mine. I guess it works."

"You guess?"

"Well, I've never tried it before. It's designed to combat extreme blazes, which I seem to cause fairly often. After I almost burned your broom that one time, I thought I should have some way to extinguish them."

"Well, good thing you did," John replied surveying his charred and still-smoking bed. "Looks like our would-be killer didn't disappear after all. I was just starting to hope this had all blown over."

"Hmmmm," Sherlock replied, staring at the bed. Grabbing a vial from his trunk, Sherlock carefully scraped some residue from what remained of the four-poster into it and held it up to the light.

"What's in there?"

"Fireseed powder. Highly flammable. It combusts instantly upon the addition of even a small amount of heat. The body heat from your hand resting on the bed for a second was enough to set it off. Its inactive form is useful in potions, but its active form is difficult to acquire. Snape only uses it for certain concoctions and in very specific amounts. I know for a fact he hasn't ordered any this year, nor does he have any in storage."

"So it's looking more and more likely that our culprit is outside of Hogwarts," John reasoned.

"Yes, but they must have an accomplice inside the school."

"Or they're using Polyjuice Potion or some other means of disguise."

"Possibly, but that seems unlikely. Anyway, you should be safe for tonight at least. I doubt they'll strike again," Sherlock concluded.

"What if they come to make sure the job's done?"

"I don't think they'd risk it. They're too clever for that. Besides, I'm a light sleeper. I'll hear anyone who tries to break in."

"You're a light sleeper? I seem to remember a time when you slept through an entire Quidditch victory party in the common room," John stated, somewhat exasperatedly.

"I was severely exhausted. That doesn't count."

"I'm going to cast a few protective spells, just in case."

"Probably a good idea," Sherlock replied as he slid into his own bed, after checking to make sure it was fireseed-free. When he was done spellcasting, John turned from the doorway and looked around at the dormitory. Sherlock sighed.

"Would you like to take my bed as yours is in no fit shape for use?"

"Oh no," John answered, shaking his head vehemently. "That's the last thing people need to hear. Me sleeping in your bed."

"Good because I didn't want to give it to you."

"I'll just kip on one of the other lad's beds. Thank you, though," John added as an afterthought.

"Mmhm," Sherlock replied, eyes closed. John slipped into the other bed next to Sherlock's, furthest from the door. Sherlock waited several minutes until John's breathing evened out—honestly, even a near death experience couldn't keep his friend from sleep—and then he swung out of bed. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from his dressing gown pocket and walked over to the ruined four-poster. He searched for a few seconds and then gave a triumphant grin. He used the tweezers to pick up a single blond hair, placing it in another vial. Their would-be killer had slipped up. The game was on.


	4. Correspondence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a mellow chapter. I wanted to experiment with the letter format, as John and Sherlock would obviously not have texting. Their owls must get quite a workout.

John, 15 December 1990

Life at home is unbearably hateful. I find all of these holiday festivities most distasteful. Between mother, father, and Mycroft's inquiries about my health, schooling, and plans for the future, I've not had a moment's peace. We should have stayed at Hogwarts.

-SH

Sherlock, 16 December 1990

After nearly burning to death in my own bed, I disagree. We've been on break for a day, so you cannot be miserable already. Quit being so melodramatic and chin up. Only 21 more days to go.

-JW

John, 17 December 1990

21 days is an eternity. I am likely to go mad before they are up. If my family drives me to an early grave, I bequeath my skull to you. And all of my potion supplies. And Madame Curie, though you must remember to only feed her the expensive owl treats. She's quite picky. I probably should draft an official will at the rate things are going. Mycroft tried to engage me in a game of Gobstones yesterday. Gobstones, John! What a ridiculously dull pastime. I am not sure he and I are actually related.

-SH

Sherlock, 18 December 1990

Oh, you two are definitely related. Besides the physical resemblance, you both have terrifying powers of deduction, a total lack of sentiment, and no consideration for the feelings of others. You are far too generous in terms of passing on your worldly possessions. I've always wanted an antique skull. And of course I will take care of Madame Curie. She and Sig get along quite well.

-JW

P.S. Gobstones is bloody awful.

John, 19 December 1990

Your sarcasm was practically oozing out of that last letter. I needed a napkin to wipe it off my hands. And I resent your putting Mycroft and me at the same level in terms of deductive abilities. I am capable of considering other's feelings. I declined to comment on Molly's outfit when she went out with you, Sarah, and Lestrade. The plunging neckline made her motives quite obvious.

-SH

Sherlock, 20 December 1990

My mistake. I should have clarified that Mycroft's deductive abilities are far superior to yours. That was quite foolish of me to portray you as equals. Molly's neckline was not plunging; it was tasteful. And it worked because she and Lestrade are meeting up over break for tea.

-JW

Sherlock, 21 December 1990 And now you are not responding to me. I'm sorry. What I said in my last letter was uncalled for. You know I didn't really mean it. You are infinitely more intelligent than Mycroft.

-JW

John, 22 December 1990

I do not understand why you think I would be bothered by the contents of your letter, but apology accepted. By the way, I sent the hair I found to Lestrade. He has a cousin in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She's going to take a look and see if she can discover any more information on our would-be killer, though it may take a while. My parents are insisting I journey with them to our lodge in the Alps for our annual ski trip that I have managed to avoid for the past few years. You wouldn't care to come, would you? My parents mentioned I could invite you, and it might be SLIGHTLY more tolerable if you came.

-SH

Sherlock, 23 December 1990

A DNA test would probably be quicker, but I doubt many witches and wizards are on the record. And this settles it. Forget the ski trip and come with me to Clara's ranch. Dad and Clara are on board, and Harry even reluctantly agreed to your joining us. I give you permission to milk the attempts on my life for all they are worth when convincing your parents to let you go. We'll pick you up on the 26th at 9:00 in the morning. And we're taking the car. My dad's not too fond of Floo powder.

-JW

John 24 December 1990

My parents have approved of our plan. Mother gushed on and on about you for several minutes and then said, "Of course you can spend the rest of break with the Watsons. You should be there for John in his time of need." I think she wants to adopt you. I suppose this means I shall have to comment on the scenery and try not to engage in a shouting match with Harry.

-SH

Sherlock, 25 December 1990

Happy Christmas!

Mercifully, Harry is not driving with us. It will be just you, dad, and me. Please thank your mother for the jumper. It's quite dashing, but I have a feeling she spent far too much money on it. And the Quidditch gloves are fantastic. I'm impressed that you went into Spintwitches without bursting into flames, since you usually avoid it like the plague. Anyway, do try to enjoy your Christmas, and be nice to your family. I'll see you tomorrow!

-JW

John, 25 December 1990

I shall do my best seeing as it is the holidays. I played Mycroft in Wizard's Chess today, though I soundly defeated him. I am glad you like the gloves; it was quite a trial for me to enter that cesspool of sport and buy them for you. I like the self-tuning resin you got from Dominic Maestro's. It works very well. As for Cluedo, my parents found in quite intriguing, as they have never seen a Muggle board game before. I, on the other hand, was not amused. I look forward to the hour of our departure tomorrow. Happy Christmas, John.

-SH


	5. A Temporary Respite

Sherlock stepped out of the car, closing the passenger door behind him gratefully. The three-hour ride had felt much longer since John and his father had sung along to every song on the radio, making up the words if they weren't familiar with the tune. Now, all Sherlock wanted was silence and solitude.

For the present moment, it seemed he was to have neither, as Clara and Harry had come out to greet them. Harry, minus the usual stench of alcohol, hugged her father and then subjected John to a smothering embrace.

"Get off me, Harry."

Clara gently edged between the two siblings, giving John a hug of her own. Harry turned to Sherlock, narrowed her eyes slightly, and then—as if realizing this was rude—forced the corners of her mouth into an insincere smile.

"Sherlock."

"Harry."

Again, Clara interjected herself into the middle before things could escalate.

"Hello, Sherlock. It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she stated, extending her hand, which Sherlock took.

"Charmed. Could you show me to my room now?"

Clara looked slightly taken aback, but quickly recovered her composure.

"Of course. You've had a long ride. This way."

The group marched through a light accumulation of snow to the house. Two large wooden stables lay about 200 meters to their left and a wood fence ran down the length of the drive to their right, enclosing a vast open field that merged into a forest about 500 meters in.

Clara saw Sherlock eyeing the fence skeptically and explained, "It's more for show than to keep the hippogriffs in. They stick to their territory. They've got plenty of room for hunting and flying."

A white hippogriff came up to the fence and Clara went over and stroked its beak. The creature closed its eyes and nuzzled at her shoulder.

"This is Malcolm. I rescued him from a hippogriff fight club in Romania a couple years ago. He's one of my biggest success stories."

"What is it exactly that you do here?" Sherlock asked, curiosity overcoming—for the moment—his desire to be alone in his room.

"I breed and rehabilitate hippogriffs. This is a sanctuary of sorts for abused griffs, but I raise them for work on farms or as mounts for customers. But I won't sell a griff to just anyone. They have to give off the right vibe," Clara explained.

"Clara's very good at reading people," Harry added, putting her arm around her girlfriend's waist.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and they continued on. The house was a modest two-story farmhouse painted a light buttery yellow. The interior was decorated tastefully with a rustic charm. Sherlock and John had bedrooms across the hall from each other on the second floor.

While Sherlock retreated to the solitude of his room, John raced downstairs to join his family, shouting back at Sherlock, "We'll be outside."

Sherlock didn't bother responding, instead breathing in the quiet of the house. Now he could finally dedicate some time to that monograph on identifying poisons.

Several hours later, Sherlock heard the rest of the party come in and begin to make dinner. He tuned out the noise until—over the clamor of pots and pans—he heard his name mentioned.

"Sherlock seems like an interesting fellow," Clara said. Harry let out a snort.

"That's one word for it."

"Lay off, Harry," John snapped.

"What? I'm just being honest. He is an interesting fellow."

"We all know what you really mean. He gets enough of that rubbish at school. He doesn't need it here too."

"What word would you use to describe him then? Mental? Unhinged? Freakish?

"I think you want to shut it right about now, Harry," John replied through gritted teeth.

"That's enough," Dr. Watson said calmly but forcefully. "You two are far too old for this."

Silence reigned for a few moments, and then Clara smoothly transitioned to a safer topic.

"So, John, how are you and Sarah doing?"

Sherlock stopped listening at this point, not in the least bit interested to hear John go on about his girlfriend.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Sherlock opened his eyes to see John standing in the doorway.

"Supper's ready. You're coming down."

"I suppose if I must."

"You must. And play nice with Harry. She's on edge today."

"Yes, I heard."

"Sorry for that."

"Why? It's not your fault."

"No, but she's my sister, and I feel partially responsible for her stupidity."

After dinner—which passed without incident, as Sherlock and Harry had avoided any kind of interaction—Dr. Watson suggested charades. Sherlock attempted to make a break for it, but John caught him by the back of his sweater and plopped him down in one of the large armchairs, shooting daggers at him if he even raised himself a centimeter from his seat.

At first, Sherlock just watched. He rolled his eyes at John's attempts to portray a phoenix—it looked more like a chicken—held back a smile during Dr. Watson's impersonation of a mermaid, and frowned at Harry's crude imitation of a giant. Clara had them all stumped, though, until Sherlock shouted out, "Bowtruckle." Upon guessing correctly, he was forced to have a turn. After that, he kept his mouth shut.

The next morning, John barged into Sherlock's room, throwing two sweaters and an overcoat at him.

"Get dressed and let's go."

"Go where?" Sherlock mumbled, turning his back on John and pulling the covers up over his face.

"Riding."

"I don't think so."

"Come on, Sherlock. It'll be fun."

"Nothing you say will convince me that climbing on the back of a demented horse/bird hybrid is 'fun.'"

"I didn't invite you here so you could mope around inside all day."

"Really? Why did you bring me along then?"

John frowned, marched over to the bed, and then pushed Sherlock out of it. Sherlock angrily sprang to his feet.

"Oh, look. You're up. Might as well come with me then."

"I hate animals."

"Just think of it as an experiment. One day, I'm sure it will help you solve a case. But don't mess with the hippogriffs. Clara may look sweet and harmless, but remember, she's dating Harry."

"Fine."

"If you're not downstairs in five minutes, I'm dragging you down myself," John shouted back as he walked out of the room.

Exactly fifteen minutes and forty-three seconds later, John and Sherlock were standing in front of the paddock with Clara.

"You two ready?" The boys nodded. "Alright then." Clara let out a bizarre cry somewhere between a whistle and a whinny. Less than a minute later, two hippogriffs came trotting out of the woods and up to the fence.

"The tawny female on the right is Beatrice and the black female is Hero. John, why don't you have a go with Hero?"

John slowly opened the gate, maintaining eye contact as he bowed to the imposing ebony hippogriff. After several tense seconds, she returned the gesture, allowing John to stroke her beak.

"Very good," Clara said, beaming. "Your turn now, Sherlock."

Sherlock went through the same motions as John and was pleasantly surprised when he was rewarded with a bow from Beatrice. He was even more taken aback when she nudged his arm, looking for attention, which he gave.

"You're a natural. And John said you weren't an animal person."

"I'm not. This is an unusual occurrence."

"Would you guys like to ride?"

"Yes," John said, as Sherlock simultaneously uttered a vehement, "No."

"Come on, Sherlock. Live a little," John said as he climbed on top of Hero's back. Sherlock sighed and then followed suit. He looked over at John who gave him a questioning stare.

Ready?

Sherlock nodded, and, in a blur of feathers, they launched into the air. Beatrice's shoulders moved in tandem with her wings, creating a rocking motion that Sherlock found a bit unsettling. After several minutes, though, Sherlock adapted to the movement and relaxed enough to look around.

The countryside spread out beneath them, snow glittering from the bare branches of the trees. The sun at their backs kept them somewhat warm, despite the chill winter air. The ground below them was devoid of people and buildings, endless wilderness that made Sherlock feel as if he and John were the only two people left in the world.

Sherlock looked over at his friend and was taken aback by the look of contentment on John's face. He wore a small smile, arms spread wide, embracing the breeze as if he didn't have a care in the world. As if there wasn't some maniac out there at this very moment, an unknown menace trying to stop his heartbeat.

Sensing his gaze, John opened his eyes and looked back at Sherlock. He raised his eyebrows at him, let out a whoop, and then nudged Hero into a dive. Beatrice followed suit, and the wind tore at Sherlock's eyes as the ground hurtled ever closer. At the last second, both hippogriffs unfurled their wings, stopping their ascent, and landing fairly smoothly. John laughed as he leapt off Hero's back into the snow.

"That beats a broomstick any day."

The rest of break went by far too fast. John and Sherlock spent their hours exploring the ranch, riding the hippogriffs, helping Clara with chores, or just sitting around the fire in the living room in companionable silence.

On the evening before they were to return to Hogwarts, Sherlock and John walked in the door, shaking snow off their boots, only to find Harry, Clara, and Dr. Watson waiting for them in the entryway.

"What's going on?" John asked.

"When were you going to tell us someone's been trying to kill you?" Harry asked, waving a sheet of paper in John's face.

"What's that?"

"A letter from your friend, Greg Lestrade, saying they couldn't get a match for the hair Sherlock found when someone tried to set you on fire in your bed. But why would we need to know about that?"

"Harriett…"

"No, Dad. John should have told us about this. What's your excuse?"

"It's not that big a deal, Harry."

"Not a big deal! Oh, that's rich. I'd hate to see your definition of a 'big deal.'"

"Lay off."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Since November, " John mumbled.

"Jesus, John. How many times have they tried to kill you?"

"Twice."

"What the hell are they thinking, letting you stay at school? You're not going back."

"Yes I am. I knew you would react like this, which is I why I kept quite about it. If I stay here, I put you all in danger."

"That's a risk we're willing to take, John," Clara said softly.

"Well, I'm not. Nobody's going to die for me"

"You are so infuriating. Dad, a little help."

Dr. Watson stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"John, do you really think you'll be safe at school."

"Yes."

"Sherlock, do you agree that Hogwarts is the safest place for my son?"

"Yes, there's safety in numbers."

"But there's also anonymity," Dr. Watson added. He stared at the boys for a moment. "John, you can go back to school, but if something happens you have to let us know. You can't keep this a secret from your us."

"You can't be serious, Dad."

"Harry, I am still the head of this family. John's not a fool. If he says he's safe at school, then I believe him." Harry threw her hands up in frustration and retreated into the kitchen. Clara gave John a small smile and then followed her girlfriend. Silence fell.

"Thanks, Dad," John said, looking at his feet. Dr. Watson sighed.

"Just be careful, John. I don't want to lose you the same way I lost your mother."

"You won't, Dad," John said, hugging his father. Sherlock stared at the furniture, not really sure where to look and feeling very out of place.

"I think I'm going to turn in early tonight," John said, pulling away from his father's embrace.

"Dinner's almost ready."

"I'm not very hungry."

"Alright. Good night, John."

"Goodnight, Dad. Sherlock." Sherlock just nodded at his friend. When John had climbed the stairs, Dr. Watson turned to him.

"Keep him safe," he said, and then he left to join Harry and Clara in the kitchen.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and opened up a textbook he had been reading earlier. The end of this vacation was a bit too domestic for his liking.

Sherlock was still lounging on the couch when the clock chimed midnight. Harry staggered into the room as the chimes faded, one hand in a death grip around a bottle of firewhiskey. She pulled up short upon seeing Sherlock.

"Oh, it's you," she said, but made no move to leave the room.

"A very astute observation, as usual, Harry," Sherlock retorted, figuring he had earned the right to needle her after managing to be polite for so long.

"You're lucky I'm drunk," she replied, taking a long swig.

"Because when you are sober you are so much more intimidating. I thought you had set aside the bottle for good" Sherlock said, acid in his voice.

"I did, but now that my little shit of a brother has some murderer after him, I needed it again." They fell silent.

"How come you haven't caught whoever's trying to do this? Aren't you supposed to be some kind of detective?"

"I don't have enough data," Sherlock replied through gritted teeth.

"Sounds like an excuse to me."

"I don't make excuses, I make deductions, and in order to do that—wait. As much as it pains me to say this, Harriet, I could use your…assistance."

"This may be the alcohol talking, but what do you need?"

"Information. Does John have any enemies? Anyone who would like to see him dead?"

"No. He's pretty damn likeable."

"Well, that was very helpful," Sherlock replied annoyedly. Harry squinted at him from her armchair by the fire.

"Hang on a minute. John may not have enemies, but our mother did."

"Your mother? John never talks about her."

"Yeah, well it's not a happy story," Harry said darkly.

"Tell me, Harry. It could be important." Harry just stared at him. Sherlock grimaced then let out a forced, "Please."

"Since you asked so nicely, how could I refuse? Our mother, Cassandra Brean-Watson, was an Auror. And a good one too. After You-Know-Who fell from power, she put a lot of dark wizards behind bars. And when he was in his prime, she fought against him and his forces. Naturally, this didn't win her many friends with the rest of the Death Eaters. John was 10 when it happened. I was 17. She was out on an assignment. Nothing dangerous, just a routine call to look into some suspicious activity that had been happening a couple neighborhoods over. When they arrived at the house, she and her group were ambushed by a group of Death Eaters. She was killed. The bastards who did it were caught. Now they're rotting in their cells in Azkaban. But that didn't bring her back to us. We survived, but John still doesn't like talking about it. They were very close." Harry put her bottle on the table next to her.

"I may come across as a heartless bitch, but I love my brother. I know you do too."

Sherlock made a noise of protest. Harry waved it away.

"Not like that. Platonically. Whatever you do, don't let him die, Sherlock. Catch this bastard, and make him…or her…pay." Harry finished and left the room.

Sherlock stared into the fire and felt a strange sense of foreboding. Tomorrow they would return to Hogwarts, back into this twisted dance of intrigue and danger. Sherlock knew he would have to do everything in his power to make sure the steps ended in something other than death.


	6. Breath and Death

John and Sherlock’s departure the next morning was rather muted. Harry, hungover from the night before, kept wincing whenever anyone spoke above a whisper. Dr. Watson looked as if he had aged overnight, concern for his son evident in the downward turn of his mouth. Clara kept handing John packets of baked goods, as if carbs and sugar would somehow keep him safe.

Luckily, they were travelling via Floo powder this time, so Sherlock would not have to endure three hours of Watson family drama. Just as they were about to step into the green flames, Harry gave her brother a genuine hug, which John returned. Harry then embraced Sherlock for a nanosecond, whispering in his ear as she pulled away, “Something happens to him and you’re dead.” Sherlock eyed her evenly and then stepped into the fireplace, closing his eyes as he did so. When he opened them again, Harry Watson’s face had been replaced with the welcome sight of the Great Hall.

Their return to Hogwarts went smoothly, and January flew by without any attempts on John’s life. In public, John seemed back to his normal carefree and confident self. He even instituted Quidditch practice on the days it wasn’t snowing. Sherlock would reluctantly follow John to the pitch—sometimes accompanied by Sarah, Molly, Lestrade, Mike, or some combination of the four—to keep an eye on his friend. In private, though, when they were sitting in the common room or studying in the library, John’s weariness would show. John hated waiting almost as much as Sherlock, yet that was the state they found themselves stuck in since neither of them believed for an instant that the would-be killer had given up.

Sherlock and John found themselves in one of these moments the day before the Valentine’s trip to Hogsmeade. 

Sherlock was sketching out the possible offspring of a cross between a venomous tentacula and the common rose, while John stared into the fire, his Herbology essay lying half-finished on his lap. Sherlock looked over the top of his scroll at his distracted friend and decided, uncharacteristically, to break the silence. 

“Your mother was an Auror.” It was a statement, not a question.

John jumped in his seat, startled by Sherlock’s voice.

“Um...yes. Yes, she was. Want to explain how you managed to deduce that?”

“Unfortunately, the explanation is rather dull. Your sister told me.”

“And why exactly were you and Harry talking about my mum?”

“I asked Harriet if she knew anyone who might have a grudge against you. Someone who’d want to hurt you. When she replied in the negative, she mentioned your mother’s occupation. Enemies are in an Auror’s job description.”

“And you think one of them’s after me?”

“It seems possible.”

“Yes, but my mother had a sparkling track record. She was very good at her job. Her targets either ended up in Azkaban or dead.”

“A relative or family member of one of your mother’s targets?”

“I suppose,” John said, looking skeptical. “But why now? Why wait so long? And why target me? It seems a bit excessive.”

“All excellent questions, John. We need a motive,” Sherlock muttered. “Or more data. Preferably both.”

“Data would involve more near-death experiences for me.”

“An unfortunate side effect.”

“Please try to remember that we’re talking about my life here,” John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m well aware of that, John,” Sherlock snapped back.

“Right, right. I know you are, sorry. It’s just...I’m just...tired. Tired of waiting for the ax to fall. I feel like a string that’s been pulled too tight.” John rubbed his eyes with his palms. Sherlock gave his friend a look that bordered on sympathetic.

“You should get some sleep.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

 

The passage of several hours found Sherlock still deep in thought over the issue at hand. The fire had burned down to faint, almost infinitesimal embers, and all the illumination in the room came from the moonlight spilling through the small gaps in the blue velvet curtains. 

Sherlock had come up with several theories, but none of them seemed quite right. The parents of a Death Eater killed by Cassandra Watson who wanted to murder her son in return. A serial killer who took out the children of Auror’s before they could follow in their parents’ footsteps. A rich Death Eater who had lost it all in the purge after Voldemort’s disappearance—Sherlock didn’t believe for one moment that the Dark Lord was gone for good. But all of these begged the question of how the would-be killer had access to Hogwarts, one of the best-defended magical sites in the UK, if not the world. Sherlock had quickly ruled out the professors and staff; just because Filch and Madame Pince were cantankerous did not make them killers. So, how was the murderer doing it? Imperious Curse? At least once. Polyjuice Potion? A plant inside the school? A complex disguise? Some combination of all four? He simply didn’t have enough information. He would have to do some research on the late Mrs. Watson.

Sherlock suddenly noticed the room had gotten much lighter. He turned to face one of the back windows, whose curtains had been drawn back, only to find John sitting in the window seat, staring out at the snow-covered and moonlit grounds below. As if sensing his gaze, John turned to look at his friend. 

“You should be sleeping,” John chastised.

“So should you.”

“I tried, but I just kept thinking about my mum,” John replied wearily, running a hand over his face. Sherlock remained silent.

“I hated her job so much. She always told me she did it so kids like me could grow up without fear. So they wouldn’t lose their parents to You-Know-Who’s forces. Every time she went to work, I was afraid she wouldn’t come home again. She sometimes had to sneak out of the house so I wouldn’t realize she had left. I would wait up at the top of the stairs at night until I heard her open the door. I fell asleep there loads of times. She said goodbye on the day she died. She asked if I wanted to help her make breakfast the next day. The last thing she said to me was, ‘Check how many eggs we have, sweetie.’ And then she was gone.” John paused for a moment and stared out the window again. Sherlock kept his gaze on his friend.

“I know you say heroes don’t exist,” John continued, turning to look Sherlock in the eye. “But they do, and my mum was one of them.”

“I would have to agree,” Sherlock replied slowly. John gave his a wan smile.

“Well, thanks for listening. I’m going to give sleeping another go. Have to be awake for Hogsmeade tomorrow or Sarah will kill me.” 

Sherlock groaned.

“You don’t have to go if you hate it that much.”

“I’m out of unicorn hair and pickled doxie eggs, so it won’t be an entire waste of time.”

“That’s the spirit. See you in the morning.”

“Yes. See you then.”

 

There was a bit of a row between the two the next morning when John found out Sherlock—in a fit of irritation at his lack of leads—had set fire to the Ever-Blooming Roses he had bought for Sarah. As punishment, Sherlock had to engage Sarah in conversation the whole way down to Hogsmeade so John could slip off and buy her some more. Sherlock had offered to purchase a dozen replacement bouquets instead, but John had been adamant.

Now, Sherlock was impatiently enduring Sarah’s ceaseless babble about the Alveolar Enhancement Draught she had been making after dinner the night before, while Molly and Lestrade walked behind them. 

“I stepped away for one minute while it was brewing to get one of my textbooks from this first-year Slytherin girl who had apparently found it. When I came back, the potion had turned into this watery, pale-blue mixture when it was the desirable deep purple before I walked away. It was letting off this weird, wispy steam. Snape came running in, took one look at my cauldron and snidely asked if my goal as a Healer was to murder all my patients as I had made a draught that floods the alveoli in the lungs and causes respiratory failure. When I assured him I followed the instructions exactly, he smirked and told me the addition of a single ingredient would turn the potion into poison. I told him that seemed rather stupid, and he responded, ‘You would do well to remember Miss Sawyer, the close relationship between life and death,’ and dramatically waved his wand over my cauldron, making the contents vanish. He’s such a prig. Then he took five points from Gryffindor. When I told him I hadn’t added the extra ingredient and that someone must have tampered with my cauldron, he took away ten more points and I have to redo it next week.”

“At least he’s giving you a second try,” Molly replied. “That’s very unlike him.”

“You really think someone messed with it?” Lestrade asked, stretching casually and putting his arm around Molly’s shoulders, causing her cheeks to burn phoenix-red. Sarah’s frown turned into a grin as she turned to face them.

“Yes, Greg. It was probably Anderson of one of the other Slytherin Healers. We’re a pretty competitive bunch, but they’re the worst,” Sarah added.

“My money’s on Anderson,” Sherlock added.

“How’d you deduce that?” Lestrade asked, baffled.

“I didn’t; I just don’t like him.”

All three of them laughed, and Sherlock smiled slightly as they walked through the gates and into Hogsmeade.

The village loomed before them, already crowded with students. The buildings were decorated with hearts in every shade of purple, pink, and red. Literal fairy lights glistened from the awnings, and winged cupids flew around, dropping confetti and delivering love notes. Sherlock annoyedly brushed some out of his hair.

“Where is John?” Sarah asked, tapping her foot impatiently as they came to a stop by Honeydukes.

“Turn around,” Molly ordered. Sarah spun on the spot, only to come face-to-face with a large bouquet of glittering silver roses clenched in John’s hand.

“Oh, they’re lovely,” Sarah sighed, taking them from John and kissing him.

“I hoped you’d like them. The shopkeeper told me they’re some sort of new breed.” Sarah turned to show off the blooms to Molly, while Sherlock took John by the shoulder.

“How did you afford those?” He whispered.

“I may have—ah—borrowed some money from your drawer, but I’ll pay you back,” John admitted sheepishly.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, Sherlock, I’ll…”

“John. It’s fine, really.” John stared at his friend for a moment and then nodded.

“Right. Thanks.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us, Sherlock?” Sarah asked, threading her arm through John’s.

“I couldn’t be more positive. I’ve heard Madame Puddifoot doesn’t allow singles through her front door, and I have no desire to watch the four of you stare dreamily into each other’s eyes all day.” 

“Well, don’t forget to meet us at the Three Broomsticks at 7:30,” John reminded as the four of them walked off. “You can be my date.”

“Only if I decide to share you,” Sarah teased. Sherlock’s smile quickly turned into a frown as they turned the corner. He didn’t mind being alone, but spending the day solo in Hogsmeade was not his idea of a good time. He wandered around for a bit, lost in thought, but he quickly stepped down a side street to avoid Anderson and Donovan who were snogging sickeningly in front of a café. Luckily, his favorite music store, Dominic Maestro’s was around the corner. He went in and played a few of the new violins, although he still preferred his old Stradivarius. 

After an hour or so, he bought a new tin of polish and left to visit the apothecary. Sherlock had helped the owner with some vandals several years ago, and, in return, she let him brew potions in the shop, although he had to pay for the rarer ingredients that he used. He pulled Advanced Potions for Healers, which he had nicked from John this morning, out of his bag, sat down in front of a pewter cauldron, and rifled through the pages. He stopped when he saw the potion Sarah had been talking about earlier. He bet he could brew it successfully and faster than the five hours it had taken Sarah. He rolled up his sleeves and began to prepare the Alveolar Enhancement Draught. 

As he suspected, it proved relatively simple, although there were many steps, and—for the average potion maker—plenty of opportunities to make a mistake. Sherlock smiled satisfactorily at the deep purple concoction that he had produced in four hours and fifteen minutes. It was a little disturbing, though, that the addition of one ingredient could have such a powerful effect on the product. He would have to look into that more later. He bottled up the mixture and put it in one of the inner pockets of his coat. Saying goodbye to the proprietress, he stepped out into the snowy street and headed to Tomes and Scrolls, spending a few hours there until it was time for him meet his friends at the Three Broomsticks.

As much as Sherlock complained about socializing, he did enjoy spending time with John and the gang, as long as it was in small doses. The pub, as always, was crowded with both students and faculty. Hagrid’s hulking frame contrasted with the much smaller ones of Sprout and Flitwick. Mike Stamford, egged on by several of his Hufflepuff friends was trying unsuccessfully to hit on Madame Rosmerta. Anderson and Donovan were having a row, with Sally demanding to know where he had been yesterday evening and Anderson replying that he couldn’t remember. 

Catching sight of his friends by the window, Sherlock headed over to them. When John saw Sherlock, he gave him a grin and patted the seat next to him. Sherlock sat and Molly asked how he had spent his day. Sherlock didn’t fail to notice Lestrade’s arm on the back of Molly’s chair. 

“I tried out some new violins and then brewed that potion you were talking about earlier, Sarah.” Instead of rising to the bait, Sarah just laughed.

“Well, I guess you can teach me how to make it, potions master.” Sherlock scowled. 

“Oh, lighten up,” Sarah continued. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“A most abominable holiday,” he mumbled.

The rest of the evening was passed in discussing whether or not Sprout and Flitwick were on a date—with John and Sherlock arguing against and Molly, Lestrade, and Sarah convinced that they were a couple. They were all laughing over Sarah and Lestrade’s imitation of a romantic conversation between the two when Anderson bumped into their table after angrily walking away from Sally.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, grabbing John’s glass to steady it.

“No worries,” John replied, shooting Sherlock a glance that clearly said, leave it. Sherlock reluctantly complied with the unspoken command.

Lestrade yawned and glanced at the clock on the wall. 

“You guys ready to get out of here?” he asked. 

“Might as well,” John agreed, draining his butterbeer and then grimacing.

“What’s wrong?” Molly asked.

“Just tasted a bit off; it’s gone cold.”

They stood up and began putting on their coats and scarves. Sherlock took the lead with John bringing up the rear. At the threshold, John stopped and grabbed the doorframe for support. Sherlock turned around to look at his friend with concern. John waved him off.

“I just felt dizzy for a second. I’ve been sitting too long.”

“Are we still going to go by the Shrieking Shack?” Lestrade asked.

“If John doesn’t feel well, maybe we’d better not,” Molly replied, noticing that John looked slightly paler than earlier in the day.

“I’m fine,” John answered firmly. All four of them looked at him doubtfully. “Really. I probably just overdid it at practice the other day, and then I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“If you’re sure,” Sarah said.

“Positive.”

“Alright then. Let’s go before it gets too dark. We only have an hour or so until we need to head back,” Sarah decided, leading the way. They headed off together with the couples walking arm-in-arm. To his dismay, Sarah linked her arm with Sherlock’s, presumably so he wouldn’t feel left out, an extremely unnecessary gesture. John seemed fine as they walked, making jokes the whole way, although he his breathing was more labored than usual. When Sherlock pointed this out, John shot him an annoyed glare.

“For the last time. I’m fine. Stop looking at me like I’m about to drop dead, Sherlock.” Sherlock nodded, but he kept John in the edge of his peripheral vision, just in case.

They reached the hill that led up to the Shrieking Shack. Sherlock reached the top first and stared at the ramshackle building. He really didn’t understand the fascination this house held for his fellow students. It was simply an old building in a state of disrepair from which people claimed to have heard strange noises years ago. People were so thick sometimes.

The rest of the group reached the precipice, cheeks red from the climb and the cold. Sherlock turned to face them so he could make a snide comment about the haunted building, but the remark died on his lips. John was hunched over with his hands on his knees, breathing far more heavily than the uphill hike had warranted. 

“John…” Sherlock started, moving towards his friend. 

“I can’t…can’t…breathe,” John managed to get out between desperate inhalations. Molly and Sarah ran over to him, leading him to a rock on the side of the path. 

“John, what is it? Tell me what’s wrong,” Sarah demanded, trying unsuccessfully to keep the panic out of her voice. John took a painfully deep breath.

“Can’t get enough air…my lungs,” John replied, pointing at his chest, which was heaving in an attempt to suck in enough oxygen.

John closed his eyes as his breathing suddenly grew more ragged. Sarah waved her wand in a circle around her ear and then put it to John’s chest.

“Something weird’s going on with his heartbeat,” Sarah stated, staring fearfully up at the rest of them. “I think he’s going into respiratory failure.”

“But how?” Molly asked, also putting her ear to John’s chest. “He’s been with us the whole day and he hasn’t shown any signs of respiratory distress.”

Sherlock barely registered what the girls were saying, his eyes locked on John as he battled to get enough air into his lungs. 

“Sarah,” John gasped out. “Sherlock.”

“Yes, John?” Sarah replied, as she gripped his hand. Before he could answer, John began to convulse, falling off the stone and into the snow.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Sarah cried as she turned John onto his side. “Respiratory failure doesn’t cause seizures.” Lestrade and Molly knelt down into the snow to help Sarah as John continued to jerk violently, like a marionette in the hands of a deranged puppeteer. 

“Anderson,” Sherlock said quietly.

“What about him?” Lestrade asked exasperatedly as he waved his wand in the spell that summoned Healers from St. Mungo’s.

“Anderson,” Sherlock repeated, his voice full of rage. He spun in the direction of the pub, hoping Madame Rosmerta was still socializing with the Hogwarts professors instead of cleaning up after her patrons. “Accio John’s cup.” He prayed that the spell could handle something that specific. After twenty agonizing seconds full of John’s strangled breathing, the goblet zoomed into his hand. Sherlock sniffed it and then put a drop of the remaining liquid on his tongue, spitting it out a second later.

“Poison,” he announced. “One that floods the alveoli of the lungs.” Sarah turned white. John gave a violent shudder as his seizure ceased and let out a gasp. With the cessation of his spasms, John’s breath turned into a whistling wheeze. Sarah let out a sob.

“Where are those damn Healers?” Lestrade swore.

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair agitatedly, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Then he remembered the vial in his coat pocket.

“Sarah, if we use the Alveolar Enhancement Draught, would it counteract the effects?”

“I guess, but where are we going to get any?” 

Sherlock knelt down, pulling the vial from his coat pocket. 

“Open his mouth.”

“How did you—“ Molly started.

“There’s no time,” Sherlock snapped. Sarah gently lifted John’s head and Molly held his lower back steady as Sherlock poured the contents down John’s throat.

“John, we need you to swallow,” Sarah instructed. Whether he heard her or out of survival instinct, John did as she commanded. 

Suddenly, a swarm of Healers in lime green robes surrounded them. They waved their wands over John as they prepared to load him onto a stretcher while Sarah explained what had happened to several of them. The Healers worked quickly, and, just as soon as they had appeared, they vanished, taking John with them. 

Sherlock blankly stared at the scene in front of him. The professors and several students had joined them at the top of the hill, most likely drawn by the sparks from Lestrade’s wand. McGonagall comforted Sarah, while Lestrade held on to Molly and talked to Mike over her shoulder. Then, Sherlock saw Anderson, and a feeling of intense rage burned throughout his body. He pointed his wand at Anderson, the most horrible curse words on his tongue ready to erupt from his mouth and make him suffer, to make him pay for hurting John, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look into Dumbledore’s compassionate eyes. His wand fell to his side.

“Hagrid, please escort Mr. Anderson to my office.”

“But he didn’t do anything,” Donovan protested. Dumbledore held up a hand, and she fell silent. “Escort Miss Donovan there as well. You are not in trouble, Miss Donovan. We just need to get to the bottom of this.” The three of them walked away. 

“Mr. Holmes, what happened?” McGonagall asked. Sherlock flatly explained everything that had just occurred: Sarah’s potion story, the incident in the Three Broomsticks, and John’s subsequent attack. 

“Anderson is a Slytherin so he would have access to the dungeons late at night. He could have slipped something into Sarah’s cauldron and then walked away with a sample.”

“That seems possible,” Dumbledore stroked his beard. “We will question Mr. Anderson and hold off on making a decision until we have more information. Now, I think you four should get some rest.”

“I’m not going back to the school. I’m going to St. Mungo’s.” Sherlock stated obstinately. 

“Me too, sir,” Sarah seconded.

“We’d like to go as well, professor,” Lestrade added, pointing at Mike, Molly, and himself. “We want to be there for John.”

“Very well, I should know better than to separate Mr. Watson from his friends. Minerva, could you take Miss Sawyer. Pomona, if you could take Mr. Stamford and Mr. Lestrade? Filius, take Miss Hooper and I shall take Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock grabbed Dumbledore’s outstretched hand and they vanished into the night.


	7. Hospitals and Discoveries

The rational part of Sherlock’s brain knew it had to be warmer than zero degrees in the waiting room of the Poison Ward at St. Mungo’s—what with the fires blazing in identical hearths on either side of the room— but the sensory part hadn’t seemed to grasp that fact yet. He had never been this cold in his life. He couldn’t suppress the shivers that occasionally shook his frame. A feeling of cold dread sat in his stomach, seeped into his bones, and chilled the rest of his body. The others must have felt the same. None of them had made a move to take off their jackets, hats, and scarves since they had arrived more than an hour ago. 

For the past sixty minutes, they had been staring vacantly into space, faces frozen in various degrees of grief or disbelief, like shell-shocked soldiers. Sherlock hadn’t even had the energy to remove Sarah’s hand from his own, although she was gripping it tightly enough to cut off his circulation. He wasn’t aware of anything besides the coldness in his heart and the knowledge that John was dying. He watched John convulse in the snow over and over again. His gasping breaths rang in Sherlock’s ears, despite the silence of the room.

The arrival of Harry, Clara, and Dr. Watson finally drove the group out of its stupor. Sarah stood up to greet them, finally releasing Sherlock’s hand, and started crying as soon as Clara wrapped her in a hug. Lestrade and Molly began to tell the story of all that had transpired to Dr. Watson who looked like he had aged ten years since Sherlock had seen him over Christmas break. Harry slowly walked over, sank into the chair next to Sherlock’s, and stared straight ahead into the distance. Without lifting his eyes from the floor, Sherlock asked, 

“What are you waiting for?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said if I let anything happen to John, I’d be dead. I failed. Something terrible has happened to him,” Sherlock spat out in a mixture of anger and self-loathing. Harry let out a long sigh.

“This is enough punishment in itself.” Sherlock looked up, surprised. He almost didn’t recognize John’s sister sitting next to him. She had lost the anger and hostility she usually wore like armor. She just looked tired. Defeated.

“I don’t hate you, Sherlock. I’m not your biggest fan by any means, but I don’t hate you. This isn’t your fault. You’ll beat yourself up for this more than I ever could.” With that said, Harry stood up and walked over to join Sarah and Clara.

Their group became less corpse-like after that. Molly or Clara would start some light conversation, the others would make a few responses, and silence would fall again. Dr. Watson had taken the seat next to Sherlock that Sarah had occupied earlier. For a long while, he didn’t speak. Then, out of the blue, he said, 

“This is the first time since John was born that I’ve been in a hospital waiting for him.” A pang of guilt shot through Sherlock’s chest. John shouldn’t be here. So stupid. Anderson couldn’t have been more obvious. He should have seen.

They remained like this for what felt like all night but couldn’t have been much more than an hour when a Healer came out and walked toward them. 

“I’m Madame Liddell. Are you here for John Watson?”

“Yes, how is he?” Dr. Watson asked anxiously, clutching his daughter’s arm. The Healer smiled. 

“He’s going to make a full recovery.” All eight of them sighed in relief.

“Thank Merlin,” Lestrade muttered.

“It was a bit dicey for a bit. There were two poisons in his system: one attacking his lungs and the other causing the seizures. It was a particularly nasty combination. That Alveolar Enhancement Draught most likely saved his life. It gave us enough time to find the right antidotes.”

“Can we see him now?” Harry asked.

“He’s not conscious, but he’s stabilized, so yes.” All eight of them made a move to follow Madame Liddell.

“There isn’t room for all of you,” she said.

“Put him in a private room,” Sherlock ordered.

“That’s rather expensive,” the Healer stated, not unkindly.

“Send an owl to Mycroft Holmes. He’ll provide you with the necessary funds.”

“What should I say?” the startled receptionist—who had been shooting concerned looks at the group for the past hour, but had seemed too nervous to approach them—asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the ineptitude of the masses—this was obviously the receptionist’s first day on the job—and grabbed a piece of stationary and a quill from the desk.

Mycroft,  
Need private room at St. Mungo’s. John poisoned. Send money.  
Sherlock

“Send this and the money will be here within the hour,” Sherlock stated, handing the receptionist the letter.

“Thank you, Alexander,” Madame Liddell added. “We’ll have him moved right away. I’ll send someone to you when the room is ready. Please let me or another member of staff know if you need anything.” With that, she walked away to check on her other patients. Several moments later, another Healer came by to take them to the room. As they left the waiting area, Lestrade turned to Molly and whispered,

“Is Sherlock rich?”

“Very,” she replied. Lestrade let out an impressed whistle.

Dr. Watson was the first to enter room 221; Sherlock was the last. While the others crowded around John’s still form, Sherlock hung back. He drowned out all the noise that people make simply by existing—honestly, they were so loud—and focused on the most important sound in the room: John’s breathing. It was regular, not at all like the nightmarish gasps of only a few hours before. It was the breathing Sherlock heard in the bed next to his every night—at least on the nights when he actually went to bed—solid and reassuring and constant, just like John. Someone had tried to extinguish that breath, to stop that rhythm for good, and they had almost succeeded. He would not let them get away with this. It was time to catch this person who seemed determined to become a murderer.

Sherlock stared at the motley group and wished they would all just vanish. They had no right to be here—he supposed Dr. Watson and Harry did, but everyone else could leave. They had other people who cared about them, made them laugh, fussed over their eating and sleeping habits, and yelled at them when they were being foolish. He only had John.

Unfortunately, the opposite of Sherlock’s wish came true. At that moment, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson walked through the door, the latter bearing a platter of sandwiches and the former carrying his landlady’s tea set with his umbrella handle wrapped around his wrist. Mrs. Hudson set down her food and began fussing over everyone. She kissed Sherlock on the cheek as she explained her presence:

“I was chatting with Mycroft when the owl came and I figured you could use some food. Dreadful business, this.” As the landlady prattled on, Mycroft caught Sherlock’s eye and jerked his chin in the direction of the door. Sherlock reluctantly followed his brother into the hall.

“Dear brother, are you well?” Mycroft asked.

“Don’t ‘dear brother’ me, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.

“Why must you always be so acidic? I’m simply concerned about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you? Your best friend almost died in front of your eyes, Sherlock. You want me to believe that didn’t affect you in the slightest?”

“I don’t care what you choose to believe,” Sherlock replied, locking eyes with his brother. After the words were out of his mouth, though, his gaze softened a bit; a normal person wouldn’t have noticed the change, but Mycroft wasn’t normal.

 

“Thank you for bringing the funds,” Sherlock added haltingly.

 

“It’s the least I could do,” Mycroft replied, examining the tip of his umbrella.

“And for Mrs. Hudson. She’s good at this…sort of thing.”

“She wouldn’t let me leave without her. An admirable woman.”

“Yes, she is.” There was silence for a few moments. 

“Well, let me know if you—John needs anything else from me,” Mycroft said. He placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a fraction of a second, and then he walked off down the hallway, spinning his umbrella. Sherlock watched him go and headed back into the room.

Molly immediately accosted him with a cup of a tea and a cucumber sandwich. When Sherlock made a face at her offerings, Molly gave him a stern look.

“John would want you to eat.” Sherlock reluctantly took the sustenance from her hands. He took several small sips of the tea and nibbled at the sandwich. Luckily, he didn’t have to feign interest in the food for long. There was a knock at the door and Dumbledore swept in. Everyone stood up at once. Dumbledore smiled slightly.

“No need to stand on ceremony. It’s not as if I’m the Queen. Dr. Watson, it’s a pleasure to see you again…” Sherlock tuned out as Dumbledore went through the usual pleasantries, but his ears pricked up when he heard, “Now about, John. I’ve been assured he will make a full recovery?”

“Yes sir,” Mike replied. 

“Most excellent. Well, now I will not make you wait a moment longer for the news I have come to deliver. Mr. Anderson has admitted to poisoning John.” Sherlock opened his mouth to respond. “But,” Dumbledore continued. “He was under the Imperious Curse. It was he who tampered with Miss Sawyer’s potion and he who added it to John’s glass, both times not of his own accord. He was able however to give us an observation about the person who cursed him.” Sherlock sat bolt upright.

“Mr. Anderson saw a woman when he was going to the bar for a drink. He says she was wearing a dark green hood of crushed velvet. He also noticed her green nail polish. The last thing he remembered was looking into a pair of grey eyes.”

“That’s all we’ve got to go on?” Lestrade asked. Dumbledore looked over his half-moon spectacles at the students.

“Perhaps not. Miss Sawyer, do you remember who it was who drew you away from your cauldron?” Sarah opened her mouth to answer, but then a confused look came over her face.

“I…I know she was a girl, but I can’t remember anything else about her.”

“You said she was a Slytherin first-year,” Sherlock added.

“Did I? Why don’t I remember?” Sarah asked.

“Just as we thought,” Dumbledore sighed. “Some kind of confounding charm.”

“So what do we do now?” Molly asked. Dumbledore’s face turned grave.

“You are to do nothing. I know you all have a proclivity for solving puzzles and problems, but there are powerful forces at work here. The professors and I will be looking into this matter. Should we fail to find the culprit, we will be forced to accept Ministry intervention.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“While it’s not the most ideal situation, Mr. Holmes, I don’t see how we can refuse. In the meantime, I will take any of you who wish to return to school with me.” Nobody moved. Dumbledore’s furrowed brow relaxed as he smiled.

“If I know Mr. Watson, he would be quite aggrieved to think you were all neglecting your own health for his sake. I will have Professor Sprout bring you back in the morning, after you’ve all had some sleep.” Mike and Lestrade stood up.

“I could use some rest, now we know John’s out of the woods,” Lestrade replied, offering Molly his hand. Molly took it and stood as well.

“Sarah, what about you?” Molly asked. Sarah looked between John and her friends.

“Sarah, dear,” Dr. Watson said kindly, taking her hand. “Go back to school and get some sleep. I’ll let you know right away if anything changes.” Sarah nodded and stood up.

“Sherlock?” she asked, turning to him.

“I’m going to stay. I’m not tired,” Sherlock lied. Sarah walked over and gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek. Sherlock barely managed to suppress a grimace, but he didn’t want to make Sarah feel worse than she already did. John would kill him once he woke up if he found out Sherlock had made Sarah cry.

Sarah walked back to the group and they disapparated.

“Dad, Clara and I are going for a walk. Will you be alright here?” Harry asked.

“Yes, dear. You two go. Sherlock and I will be fine.” 

 

They left and finally Sherlock had the solitude—more or less—that he had been craving all evening. Dr. Watson and Sherlock sat in comfortable silence—as comfortable as silence in a hospital can be. Sherlock moved his chair closer to John and stared down at his friend. He watched the rise and fall of John’s chest intently. He had never before realized how important something as trivial as breathing truly was. He found it quite tedious really, but he had a newfound respect for its necessity.

The hours passed slowly. Harry and Clara did not return. Sherlock remembered Clara once mentioning how hospitals made her uncomfortable. Despite his best efforts, Dr. Watson fell asleep, head nodding on his chest. Sherlock’s patience, though, was rewarded when, in the early hours of the morning, John opened his eyes.

“How long have I been out?”

“Less than 12 hours.” 

John sighed and then grimaced.

“Merlin’s beard, my chest hurts.”

“How odd. It’s not like you’ve been poisoned or anything.” 

John shot Sherlock a look.

“So, what do we know?”

“You were poisoned with two separate concoctions. One went to work destroying your lungs and the other caused you to seize. Anderson, acting under the Imperious Curse, tainted your cup in the Three Broomsticks and tampered with Sarah’s cauldron. It was so obvious. I should have seen.”

“No, Sherlock,” John said firmly, coughing slightly and then modulating his voice to a whisper. “I should have known better than to drink out of that cup. There’s not much love lost between Anderson and me. Is he still alive?”

“Who? Anderson? Why wouldn’t he be?” 

John grinned slightly.

“I just figured between you, Sarah, Molly, Greg, and Mike there wouldn’t be much of him left.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Dumbledore stepped in and prevented us from indulging in our more homicidal urges,” Sherlock replied, not mentioning the all-consuming rage he had felt when he saw Anderson. 

John looked fondly over at his father.

“You two the only ones here?”

“Everyone was here earlier. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson stopped by too, but Dumbledore took them all back to Hogwarts. They should be back tomorrow. Harry and Clara went for a walk a long time ago.”

“Yeah, Clara hates hospitals.” Silence fell.

“You’re the reason I’m still breathing, aren’t you?” John asked after a few moments. “Your bloody ego and need to show up Sarah saved my life.”

“You know me. Can’t resist a chance to outperform someone.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’ve never been happier that you’re an arrogant sod,” John replied, grinning fully now.

“I’ll make sure to remind you about this conversation next time you’re lecturing me on humility.” John yawned and settled back into the pillows.

“I’m sure you will. I’d better get some more rest.”

“Good night, John.”

“G’night. And, Sherlock, thank you. I owe you one.” Within seconds John was asleep again. 

“Let’s call it even,” Sherlock murmured to John’s sleeping form. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Soon, much to his displeasure, he too fell into unconsciousness.

John’s return to Hogwarts went much less smoothly this time. Over the weekend, everyone in the castle had heard the story, so on Monday John was pestered with questions and expressions of condolences at every step. John hated all the attention. He and Sherlock would retreat to the owlery or astronomy tower to do homework when the prying eyes became too much for John to bear.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had begun researching Death Eaters, confirmed or suspected, alive or dead, missing or location known. Unbeknownst to Mycroft, Sherlock had reached out to an associate in the Ministry who had sent him several lists of names to help in his search. Sherlock was now digging through archived Daily Prophets, but so far, the going had been rather slow. For every Death Eater that was somehow connected to Cassandra Watson, he had to look up extended family and friends and rule out those who were unlikely suspects. Madame Pince sent a lot of dirty looks his way. He told her it was research for class, but he was sure she didn’t believe him.

On top of this, he had to deal with an increasingly agitated John. He had never realized how much he depended on his friend to be calm, collected, and reasonable. Under the stress of the most recent attack, John had begun to crack. He always had his wand within hand’s reach, was constantly clenching and unclenching his hands, would jump at the slightest noise, and flinch when people made sudden movements. Sherlock was beginning to fear for John’s sanity. 

On Sunday, a week after John’s return, John and Sherlock were studying in the owlery, which was freezing. Sherlock wanted to go back to the library, but John had refused to budge, and Sherlock did not want to leave him alone—in fact, he and the others were under strict orders from Dumbledore not to let John out of their sight. Much to Sherlock’s annoyance, John had been clenching and unclenching his fist for the past five minutes. The sight of it in his peripheral vision was driving him mad.

“Would you knock it off?” Sherlock finally hissed.

“Knock what off.”

“Clenching your fist. I can see you out of the corner of my eye and it’s distracting.”

“Well, turn around then.”

“This is the only way I can sit that is free of owl droppings.”

“I’m sorry that this setting doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh no, it’s lovely. Who wouldn’t want to study for Transfiguration surrounded by owl feathers and waste? I couldn’t ask for better conditions.”

“You go sit in the library with everyone whispering about you and see how you like it.”

“We could sit in the library in peace if your stupid girlfriend hadn’t walked away from her cauldron,” Sherlock muttered. John slammed his book on the ground, startling several owls.

“Don’t you go brining Sarah into this.”

“She’s already been brought into it. It was her potion that almost killed you.” Sherlock knew he shouldn’t have made the jab at Sarah, but he was irritated too. He still had no suspects and he wanted normal John back. It was his job to be antisocial and unreasonable. Being sensible was far too exhausting.

“She didn’t do it on purpose.”

“No, but who’s to say it won’t be next time? Our attempted murderer has been slowly using people closer to you. First it was a girl from our house. Then it was Anderson. It could be Molly or Lestrade or even Sarah next.”

 

“And what would you have me do about that, Sherlock? Lock myself in a room and never talk to people again.”

“No, I’m just saying that all these connections make you vulnerable. Love, in any form, is a dangerous thing.”

“This is just like you,” John said, pacing now. “Blaming all my problems on my friends. You’re jealous. Jealous that I don’t spend all my time with you and jealous that you can’t relate to people.”

“Don’t be absurd. People just hold me back.”

“No, friends build you up. They care about you and protect you.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ll feel very protected when one of them comes to do you in. Just think of how loved you’ll feel when Sarah’s stabbing you in the back with—”

“Shut up,” John roared, pointing his wand at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock looked up at his friend in shock. John was panting, his breath clouding the air, anger flashing in his eyes.

“It could just as easily be you stabbing me in the back,” John said icily. Spinning on his heel, he stormed down the stairs.

Sherlock listened to John’s footsteps fade, feeling somewhat sick. He didn’t care much about people’s opinions, but that John would think him capable of such a thing hurt. With an unusually heavy heart, Sherlock headed to the library and his stack of Daily Prophets. He had managed to eliminate a few more names when he stumbled across Mrs. Watson’s obituary. It was an impressive full-page spread. 

Sherlock had never seen a picture of John’s mother before. In the photograph, she wore a serious expression, but the warmth and kindness in her eyes still shone through. She had Harry’s eyes, or rather; Harry had her mother’s eyes. Tearing his gaze away from Cassandra’s face, Sherlock turned his attention to the article accompanying the photograph.

The wizarding world has lost one of its best and brightest defenders. Cassandra Minerva Brean-Watson, aged 45, died Wednesday night in a fight at Nightshade Hall. Watson and her team were responding to an anonymous tip about suspicious noises coming from the abandoned mansion, the previous residence of suspected Death Eater, Sebastian Rehsu. The investigation turned into an all-out battle when Rehsu and his three sisters, who had returned to the house, attacked the Aurors. Sebastian and his sister Hortensia survived and are currently awaiting trial. If condemned, they will serve life sentences in Azkaban. Esmeralda and Morgana died in the fighting. Watson was killed in action while defending her wounded partner, Randolph Weathers. Morgana cast the Killing Curse on Mrs. Watson, before being crushed by a fallen statue hit by Weathers’ spell. 

Mrs. Watson put dozens of dark witches and wizards behind bars or in the ground throughout her illustrious career, saving countless individuals in the process. She also managed to touch lives in other ways as well. Mrs. Daisy Marcus had a particularly fateful encounter with the late Mrs. Watson. 

“It’s thanks to her I have a daughter. On one of her assignments, she and her team found a baby abandoned in the Rookthorn estate. Olivia is thriving now. Cassandra’s death is an absolute tragedy. She was one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met. I can’t believe she’s gone.” 

Mrs. Watson and her team killed Claudius Rookthorn in a skirmish in 1982. Those present saw his wife, Valencia Rookthorn, fall off a cliff after being hit by a spell, but her body was never recovered. She is presumed dead. Their child, Olivia Rookthorn, came into the custody of Daisy and Erik Marcus who both work for the Ministry.

Mrs. Watson was well known for her involvement in the Hawthorn Veil, Fanny Keats, and Sparrow’s Fall incidents, all high-profile cases involving dark wizards and witches. Her long-time partner, Randolph Weathers is haunted by her death.

“Cassie was my best friend. She introduced me to my husband, Danny. She saved my life that day and paid the ultimate price. The world’s a darker place without her in it.”

Cassandra Watson is survived by her mother and father, Charles and Linda Brean; her husband, Dr. Harold Watson; her brother, Jack Brean; and her children, Harriet and John. Memorial service will be held at St. Christopher’s…

Sherlock dropped the obituary and scrambled through the papers on the table until he found his list of Death Eaters. He scanned down the scroll until he came to Rookthorn. There was Valencia with “missing, presumed dead” next to her name. Her daughter, Olivia, would be a first-year at Hogwarts, if she had attended. He vaguely remembered a blonde girl with the last name Marcus being sorted into Slytherin. Everyone had been surprised, as they had pegged her as a Hufflepuff. Her face was far too pleasant for Salazar’s house. She had to be the Olivia Marcus in the obituary and the girl who called Sarah away from her cauldron.

Sherlock rifled through the stacks of Daily Prophets until he found one describing the fight with the Rookthorns. He quickly read the article and grinned. Now he was getting somewhere. His smile didn’t waver even as a very angry Sarah walked up to him.

“Have you seen John?”

“No.”

“He was supposed to meet me here half an hour ago, but he still hasn’t shown.”

Sherlock’s grin started to fade as Sarah’s face went from angry to worried. Without a word, they both headed for the door, nearly running into Filch who was wearing a malicious grin. Sherlock hung back for a moment. When Sarah shot him an impatient look, he whispered, “Filch wouldn’t be this happy unless something terrible had happened.”

Sherlock knelt down and pretended to tie his shoe as Filch began a quiet conversation with Madame Pince. Luckily, Sherlock was a skilled eavesdropper.

“Student’s gone missing,” Filch said. “Olivia Marcus, just disappeared ‘bout an hour ago…” Sherlock leapt to his feet and raced out the door, Sarah at his heels.

“I solved the case,” Sherlock said as they ran.

“You know who’s trying to kill John?”

“Who and why. I’ll explain once we find him.”

They stepped off the top step and onto the landing of Ravenclaw Tower only to practically run into Molly who was coming out of the Common Room, white as the sheet of parchment she was clutching in her hand.

Sherlock felt his blood run cold, the look in Molly’s eyes extinguishing the exhilaration of solving the case.

“John’s gone,” Molly said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger but I couldn't resist!


	8. The Final Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There is mild torture in this chapter. And I mean, really mild. I describe it very artistically, but just so you are aware, it’s in there. One more chapter after this and our journey will be complete.

“What do you mean he’s gone?” Sarah asked. Molly mutely held out the letter to Sarah who grabbed it from her hand. Sherlock read over her shoulder.

John Watson,  
We’ve never met, but you cannot begin to understand the pleasure it brings me to write this, knowing I’ll be seeing you so soon. I thought it was enough for you to die as a result of my actions, but after my previous attempts failed, I realized I want to witness your final moments, and it must be my own hand that ends your existence. Meet me in the Forbidden Forest in half an hour. My daughter will escort you in.  
Don’t go to anyone for help. Come alone. I know dear little Sherlock loves to play at solving mysteries, but he’ll have to sit this one out. If you fail to meet any of my demands, I’ll kill another Watson in your place. The enclosed token will serve as proof that my threat is not empty.   
I eagerly look forward to meeting you.  
-An Old Friend of Your Mother’s

“And that’s not all,” Molly added. “This was on top of the letter.” She handed Sherlock a silver men’s wristwatch, Muggle made. H. Watson was engraved on the back.

“That’s Harry’s watch. She’s going to kill Harry,” Sarah cried. Sherlock waved his wand over the timepiece, muttering under his breath. Nothing happened.

“It’s not a fake,” Sherlock stated angrily.

“How could John have been so stupid? He should have told us about this. We could have figured something out,” Sarah moaned.

“And risk his sister’s life? John would never take that chance. He left us the watch and the note, hoping we would find them. He may have left other clues as well. Where did you find this, Molly?”

“One of the desks in the common room,” she replied, leading them back into Ravenclaw Tower.

Sherlock examined the desk in front of them. It was covered in chocolate frog cards, half-finished essays, textbooks, potion supplies—most of them Sherlock’s—and other student debris. A gust of cold wind blew into the room, and a roll of parchment fell onto the floor, joining several others that were already there. Sherlock spun to face the closest window, which was ajar.

“Molly, was the window open when you came down?”

“I’m not sure. No…wait. Yes, yes it was because I noticed how cold it was.” Sherlock peered down to the snowy grounds below.

“Accio broom,” he muttered, holding his hand out of the window to catch John’s Comet 260.

“He did leave a clue for us.”

“His broom?” Sarah asked. “How does that help?”

“John flew down to the ground from this window. But why didn’t he just fly to the forest and save himself valuable time? He wanted us to be able to follow him, so he walked. You can clearly see his footsteps from here since it just stopped snowing about an hour ago. He left us a path right to him.”

Sarah looked out the window to confirm Sherlock’s statements.

“Let’s go after him then,” she said impatiently.

“We need to summon Lestrade and Stamford first.”

“I already did,” Molly replied. Lestrade and Mike walked through the open door just as Molly finished speaking.

“So, what’s the emergency?” Mike asked.

Molly and Sarah quickly brought them up to speed.

“What’s our plan of attack?” Lestrade asked, turning to look at Sherlock.

“Mike and Molly will go find Dumbledore and tell him what’s happened, while...”

“Dumbledore’s gone,” Mike interrupted.

“What?” Sherlock asked. 

“There was some sort of emergency at the Ministry.” Sherlock swore under his breath. 

“Fine. Mike and Molly will go find Flitwick or whatever professor they can and let them know what’s happened.”

“Who are we supposed to tell them we’re dealing with?” Molly asked.

“Valencia Rookthorn. She’s a former Death Eater, presumed dead by the Ministry. In reality, she’s very much alive. She wants to kill John because John’s mother rescued her abandoned daughter and gave her to another family to raise. She’s been using her daughter, Olivia, a Slytherin first-year, to cause all this trouble. She’s infamous for being very adept at the Imperious Curse. She was once able to control someone five people removed from herself, which was how she was able to have Olivia curse Anderson and Cho Chang,” Sherlock said quickly. Mike, Lestrade, and Molly looked at him in amazement.

“Yes, yes, he’s brilliant. Now stop staring and get moving,” Sarah snapped.

“Molly, I also need you to send an owl to Mycroft. Tell him what’s happened and have him check on the Watsons before coming here. I’m not sure Harry’s actually in danger.”

“But that’s her watch,” Molly said.

“Yes, but my brother had a full security detail on Harry and Clara, as well as Dr. Watson. I doubt Valencia could have gotten past them. It’s much more likely she stole the watch. Now go. And meet us at the Forbidden Forest when you’re done.” Molly and Mike raced out of the room.

“What do you need us to do, Sherlock?” Sarah asked.

“You two are coming with me. We’re going after, John. Lestrade, you take John’s broom. Wait here.” Sherlock raced up to the sixth-year dormitory. He grabbed his Nimbus 1700 from his trunk and ran back down to the common room, only to find Sally handing her Cleansweep 7 and jacket to Sarah.

“Sarah explained what’s happened to John. I thought you might need another broom,” Sally explained, seeing the look of confusion in Sherlock’s eyes.

“That’s…kind of you,” Sherlock said awkwardly.

“Yeah, well we need him to win the Quidditch Cup. Bring him back safely.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Ready?” he asked Sarah and Lestrade. They nodded. 

Sherlock climbed onto the sill, took a breath, and then jumped into the cold night. The winter air whipping into his face took his breath away. He pulled his scarf over his mouth and pushed his broom to go faster. Although he had seemed calm and collected when he was ordering the others around, he was experiencing that rare sickening feeling of panic. He knew what they were up against. He had only read the article once, but that had been enough for him to know Valencia Rookthorn was one of the really bad ones. Besides being skilled at the Imperious Curse, she was fond of and adept at employing the Cruciatus Curse. She had even learned to combine her talents to torture her victims mentally as well as physically, making them live out their worst nightmares in their minds. She had been one of Voldemort’s favorites.

Lestrade, Sherlock, and Sarah reached the edge of the forest and dismounted. The depths of the woods were dark despite the radiant moonlight and the lack of leaves on the trees. John’s footsteps were joined here by a set of small footsteps. Sherlock knelt down to examine them.

“These are the same as the one’s we found outside Ravenclaw Tower when Cho Chang was cursed,” Sherlock announced. 

“It looks like he went willingly with her. Their prints are side by side,” Lestrade observed. Sherlock gave him a surprised look. He sometimes forgot Lestrade was studying to be an Auror.

“What are we waiting for?” Sarah asked. “Let’s go.”

“We are not going in,” Sherlock stated. “I am. You two are staying here.”

“Like hell we are,” Sarah said.

“Are you insane? That would be suicide,” Lestrade said at the same time.

“I’m the strongest spellcaster and the smartest one here. I’m the only one who’ll stand a chance against her.”

“I can’t argue with that second point, but I’m not sure I agree with the first one,” Lestrade countered. “You’re also the skinniest. She could break you like a twig.”

“This doesn’t come down to brawn, Lestrade. She’s a highly skilled Death Eater.”

“And dealing with people like her is going to be my career, Sherlock. I know what I’m getting into.”

“No, you don’t,” Sherlock said. “She was part of You-Know-Who’s inner circle. Please, Greg.”

Lestrade looked taken back at Sherlock’s use of his first name, but a look of resignation took its place a moment later. 

“Right. Fine. I’ll stay here and wait for backup then, yeah?”

“Green sparks mean the coast is clear and it’s safe for you to follow. Red means I’m in trouble, but only come if you have support. And gold means I need you right away.” Lestrade nodded. Sarah just stared at Sherlock, her arms crossed.

“I’m coming in with you.”

“Sarah…”

“At least part of the way.” Sherlock stared at her impassive face. They had wasted so much time already.

“Very well,” Sherlock said as he spun on his heel and strode into the forest.

“Good luck,” Lestrade called after them.

Sarah and Sherlock marched on in silence, following John’s tracks, which were harder to see in the darkness of the woods. Despite the bare branches of the trees, not much snow had fallen onto the forest floor. At some points, the footsteps disappeared and Sherlock had to employ some of his rusty tracking skills. 

About five minutes into their walk, the two sets of tracks veered off from the path. Sherlock paused.

“You don’t have to go in there alone,” Sarah said. Sherlock turned to look at her. She was calm and collected. A stranger looking at her would never know her boyfriend had been abducted and was most likely being tortured by a vengeful Death Eater. Sherlock felt a sudden jolt of respect for Sarah. For the first time, he could maybe see why John liked her so well. And that’s why he couldn’t let her come with him. For John’s sake.

“If something happened to you, John would kill me.”

“He wouldn’t. But if you send up red sparks, I’m coming in after you, backup or no.” Sherlock nodded his agreement and stepped off the path.

“Sherlock, wait.” Sherlock reluctantly turned as Sarah began waving her wand in a series of complicated patterns around his head.

“It’s a protection spell. It will keep you safe from physical harm. It won’t last long in a fight, but it might buy you some time.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock turned again, but Sarah grabbed his arm. He spun around one more time. He saw understanding in Sarah’s eyes. She knew he was potentially walking to his death.

“Bring John back. And yourself too.”

Sherlock nodded again and Sarah released him. He walked into the trees. Admiration for Sarah and fear in the same hour. This was far too much humanity for one day.

Sherlock quickened his pace. He knew Valencia was likely to draw this encounter out. She had been nursing her grudge against John and the Watsons for years. She would keep John alive for as long as possible, but she would make every moment of that time as painful as she could. He had to get to John fast. 

Sherlock knew he didn’t stand a chance against Valencia Rookthorn. His words to Lestrade had been empty bravada meant to keep him and Sarah safe from the horrors that awaited them in the forest. His one goal was to stall the witch until help arrived. Help that would get John and hopefully himself home safely. 

After about ten minutes, the trees began to thin into a clearing. Sherlock stepped behind a tree at the edge of open space and surveyed the circular area in front of him. He had to hold himself back when he saw John lying in the snow in front of a round black stone that stood about 2.5 meters high. Small, dark pools of what appeared to be blood stained the ground around John’s still form. Sherlock fought the bile rising in his throat, telling himself firmly that he wasn’t too late. A small blonde girl lay on a cloak near the opposite edge of the clearing. This had to be Olivia. Valencia was nowhere to be seen. 

So, she had known he was coming. He had suspected as much. Some kind of perimeter spell most likely. If he walked out there, he would be playing into her hand. Not that he had much of a choice. Sherlock let out a small sigh, drew his wand, quickly strode over to John’s side, and knelt down in the snow. John slowly opened his eyes. 

“…Merlin’s sake, Sherlock…walked right into her trap,” John said weakly.

“Lovely to see you too,” Sherlock muttered as he took in the state of his friend.

A large gash on John’s forehead was bleeding sluggishly. If it weren’t for the cold, it would probably be gushing. His right eye was swollen shut. Several wounds on his chest and abdomen had also contributed to the pools of blood dotting the snow around them. His left foot was bent at an awkward angle from his ankle, most likely broken. He was extremely pale and shivers wracked his body. Sherlock guessed John was entering the beginning stages of hypothermia. His one good eye seemed to be having a hard time focusing on Sherlock. 

His heart sank. There was no way he was carrying John out of here. Time to stall then.

“Sherlock…get out…she’ll kill you.”

“She’ll kill you if I leave,” Sherlock replied as he cast a very basic spell to numb John’s pain. Healing spells had never come naturally to him. This was the only one he could perform with any success, and he didn’t want to try anything more sophisticated on his friend in his current state.

“Better,” John sighed.

“Good. Now, I think it’s time we were introduced, don’t you, Valencia?” Sherlock said, standing up and turning to face the Death Eater who had just appeared in the clearing. 

“Indeed, I think it is. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Sherlock,” she said silkily as she strode out from the shadow of the trees. 

Sherlock quickly sized up his opponent. At 1.8 meters she was only slightly shorter than him. Her light blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders, framing a porcelain face with gray eyes. Her pale complexion gave her a washed-out appearance, as if she were not entirely of this world. Some people would call her strikingly beautiful, but Sherlock saw the feral look that glinted in her eyes and the cruelty in the curve of her bright-red lips. She wore the same green velvet cape and nail polish Anderson had described. She held her wand loosely in her hand, which meant she didn’t consider Sherlock a threat. He could use that to his advantage.

Sherlock copied her casual attitude, even though his arm itched to hurl every spell in his repertoire at her before she could make a move.

“You’re skinnier than I expected. And you’ve fallen quite short of my expectations. It took you ages to figure me out,” she added as she began to walk toward them.

“I’m sorry to disappoint. You were quite skilled at covering your tracks,” Sherlock said, bowing his head slightly in her direction. Valencia laughed.

“Oh, aren’t you a proper gentleman?” she replied, stopping several meters away from them. Sherlock tightened his grip on his wand, keeping himself between John and the sadistic killer in front of him.

“But good breeding won’t save you.”

“I didn’t expect it would.” 

Valencia smirked. 

“I see you also ignored my instructions. John wouldn’t like you risking his sister’s life.”

“Ah, yes. And where is Harriet? Not here, I suspect. She’s safe at home isn’t she?” 

Valencia laughed.

“Very good. Tell me, how did you figure that one out?”

“You don’t seem the type of person who would want to deal with both Watsons at once. No, you would want to pick them off one at a time. Draw out the whole ordeal, prolong the pain for as long as possible. Stealing a watch is much easier than slipping a human being past my brother’s security.”

“Very smart. I’m starting to like you, Sherlock. I do wonder, though, what you expected to accomplish by coming here. You’re too clever to think you stand a chance against me. Yet, here you are, facing me alone, despite the two friends you have waiting at the edge of the forest for you.” Sherlock tried to keep his face composed, but he must have failed because Valencia grinned. It was a terrible smile, like one a dragon would wear when it knew it was about to eat you, and knew that you knew too.

“Don’t worry. They’re safe, for now. I’ll deal with them later. So here you stand, bold as brass, without a plan, and I can’t fathom why someone as clever as you would do something so foolish.”

“Who says I don’t have a plan?”

“Please dear. Small talk and charm do not constitute a plan.”

“Curiosity then.”

“Curiosity?”

“The criminal mind fascinates me. I never pass up the chance to understand it in greater depth.”

“Criminal mind. You think I’m the villain here? His filthy mother”—she pointed her wand at John and Sherlock tensed—“killed my husband and stole my daughter from me to be raised by Mudbloods,” she spat out the last word, her veneer slipping away for a moment, allowing Sherlock a glimpse of the madwoman underneath.

“I never claimed your motives were insufficient, Valencia, but attempting to kill John on more than one occasion, not to mention the pain and death you inflicted in your time as a Death Eater, does constitute as deviant behavior.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. I was very good at hurting people. The Dark Lord was quite fond of my work. Perhaps I should demonstrate on you,” Valencia said, her voice transforming into a snarl.

Sherlock barely managed to put up a protection spell before Valencia’s curse crashed into him. He staggered backwards under its force. He was a skilled duelist, but she was in another league entirely. 

Valencia began to circle in front of Sherlock, firing off spells he just barely managed to deflect or avoid. Sherlock kept his back to the large stone, determined not to leave John exposed to Valencia’s attacks. As if sensing this, she suddenly disapparated. Sherlock rolled away from the rock as Valencia hurtled a curse from the top of the stone. Sherlock threw a jinx over his shoulder as he got to his feet.

He knew it had hit home when Valencia let out a howl of pain. Sherlock had no time to celebrate as he had only managed to further enrage her. She drove him to the other side of the stone, firing off curses so fast that Sherlock had no time to even think about striking back. 

Valencia’s last spell sent a large spray of snow into the air. When it cleared, she was nowhere to be seen. John suddenly let out a pained scream from the other side of the stone. Sherlock turned his head and found himself flying into a tree, Sarah’s protection spell shattering, as Valencia’s curse hit him square in the chest.

He crashed into the trunk hard, his wand flying out of his hand. Before he could get his bearings, he was in the air again. Valencia slammed him against the black stone, pinning him there with the force of her spell. John lay curled in a ball a little ways away from him. Valencia put her face right up to Sherlock’s, tearing his attention away from his friend. The cut he had inflicted earlier stood out lividly on her pale cheek. As he watched, she took his wand and passed it over her face. The wound disappeared. She smiled her terrible smile again as Sherlock struggled to overcome the magic holding him to the rock.

“Bravo, Sherlock Holmes. But you let John break your concentration. Tut, tut. Sentiment is weakness,” she hissed into his ear.

“You’re one to talk. A woman out on a maniacal quest for revenge trying to reclaim her long-lost daughter from the grounds of a school protected by the most powerful wizard of our time. That smacks of sentiment.” 

Valencia laughed.

“You think I fear Dumbledore? That old fool fell for my fake letter from the Minister. He’s halfway to Russia by now. The only thing that stands between me and my revenge is you.”

“What makes you think Olivia will even accept you?” Sherlock said. He was running out of ideas to keep her talking. Antagonism was his only option. “It’s too late, Valencia. She’s not a Rookthorn anymore. She’s a Marcus.” 

“What do you know?” Valencia hissed.

“I know she didn’t come here willingly. You must be worried she won’t accept her murderous mother, or else you would have had her conscious for your moment of triumph. You’ve used your own daughter like a tool to achieve your revenge. I’m sure she’ll run to you with open arms now that you’ve ruined her first year at Hogwarts. You exposed her to the Imperius Curse for long stretches of time in order to murder one of her fellow students. That will take years of counseling to undo.”

“I’ve made her forget before. We can start fresh,” Valencia insisted, though she sounded less certain.

“Memories come back. Those spells aren’t foolproof. Face it, Valencia, you’re about as nurturing as a Dementor. Your daughter will never accept—“

“Shut up,” Valencia shrieked as she slammed Sherlock into the snow. He attempted to stand once he caught his breath, but his entire lower body was frozen, as if it were rooted to the ground.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Valencia snarled as she pointed her wand at Sherlock. He squeezed his eyes shut. He knew he would never be ready for the pain, but he hadn’t known the degree to which he wouldn’t be ready. Every particle of his body was on fire, every cell aflame. They were burning through his skin, roasting him from inside. The pain increased in intensity with every passing second. He was trapped in a vortex of agony and someone was screaming. No, it was him screaming.

Suddenly, it stopped. Violent tremors shook Sherlock’s body. He dry heaved into the snow. Valencia knelt down next to him and grabbed his chin, forcing Sherlock to look into her eyes.

“There, there, sweetheart. You did very well. Most people blackout the first time. John held out until the fifth. Let’s see how long you last.” Sherlock clenched his fists and it began again. He didn’t pass out, although he would have given anything to do so. Thousands of needles were stabbing him, digging deeper and deeper and deeper. He could feel them penetrating his muscles and then his bones. He wanted them out. He needed them to come out. Sherlock gasped as Valencia finally released him. He was sweating all over and his palms were bloody from where his nails had dug into his skin.

Valencia gave him less than a minute before she began again. This time every bone in his body was shattering into pieces, the splinters ripping through his flesh. He blacked out before the end. When he came to, Valencia was standing over him.

“Don’t pass out on me now. We’re just getting started.” She waved her wand over his head and Sherlock closed his eyes, but there was no pain this time. He cautiously opened them. He was at a Muggle crime scene. Lestrade, John, Anderson, and Donovan were there. They were standing over a dead woman in a garish pink trenchcoat.

“Well, what do you make of it?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock stared and stared at the woman but nothing came to him. He sniffed her, examined her jewelry, studied the mud splashes on her legs, and searched her pockets, but to no avail.

“Nothing,” he said, horrified. The others looked at him with crestfallen faces as the scene faded. Now, Sherlock was on a mobile, staring at a Vermeer painting, trying to figure out why it was a fake while Stamford counted down from ten on the other side of the phone. It was just a painting; he didn’t have an answer to save Stamford. 

“I don’t know,” he shouted into the phone. A gravelly Avada Kedavra and a thud were his only answer. Sherlock then proceeded to watch as Chinese dragon egg smugglers executed Sarah with a crossbow because Sherlock couldn’t solve their simple cipher. Molly and Lestrade were ripped apart by a pair of black graphorns in Dewer’s Hollow because his fear had prevented him from stopping the dark wizards who owned them. Mycroft was kidnapped and died in front of Sherlock when he couldn’t determine what his brother had been poisoned with.

And then John was standing atop the astronomy tower because Sherlock had been unable to stop the criminal mastermind blackmailing him. He watched in horror as his friend jumped. The sound of John’s body hitting the ground was louder than an explosion. His broken remains landed at Sherlock’s feet, blood spilling into the grass. John’s unseeing and lifeless eyes stared up at him. He had failed John. He had failed all of them. They had died because he hadn’t been good enough. He was a failure. Failure. Failure. Failure.

Sherlock awoke with a strangled cry. Tears were streaming down his face and he gulped in air as if he had been drowning. Valencia smiled down at him.

“Well, that must have been terribly unpleasant for you. Failing all those people you care about. Being normal and not so clever for once. I found it quite delightful. How about another go?”

“Enough,” a voice from behind Valencia said firmly. She spun around in surprise. Sherlock looked up to see John leaning heavily against the rock for support. The effort to stand had reopened several gashes on John’s chest, which were bleeding again.

“Enough, Valencia,” John said clearly, drawing on reserves of strength Sherlock couldn’t believe John had. “Your fight’s with me. Leave him alone, and just kill me already.” 

“So hasty,” Valencia replied. “But I suppose this has gone on long enough. I must say it has been as fun as I imagined. Tell Cassie hello for me, won’t you Johnny-boy?” 

John looked at Sherlock through his one good eye. He gave him a small smile that managed to convey gratitude for five and a half years of friendship and sadness that this was goodbye.

“No,” Sherlock said. “No, Valencia, please. Please.”

“Quiet,” Valencia hissed as she raised her wand over her head. John kept his eyes on Sherlock, and he stared back, determined to be there for his friend until the end. Valencia froze, her hand still hovering over her head.

“Oh,” she breathed. “I’ve an even better idea. I’ve thought of something much more terrible. If I kill you, I can’t hurt you anymore. But if you kill for me…oh, it’s lovely. Really lovely. You’ll do my dirty work. Your friends waiting outside the woods, your sister, her girlfriend, and your father, you’ll strike them all down. Then, when I’ve broken you, and only then, will I end your miserable existence. And we’ll start with Sherlock.”

“No,” John said, sagging even further against the stone. “I won’t do it.”

“You won’t have a choice. Imperio.”

A neutral expression replaced the fear John’s face had worn only seconds before and he stood up straight, his pain no longer affecting him. Valencia handed John his wand and he slowly shuffled over to Sherlock. Sherlock looked into John’s eyes, but there was no trace of his friend in those empty orbs, which had been so full of expression only moments before. John placed the tip of his wand on Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn’t want John to be haunted by his gaze for the rest of his life, even if it would be a short one.

“Do it,” Valencia said breathlessly. “You know the spell.” John stood there, wand poised.

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock said. As last words went, they were less than creative but it was the best he could come up with.

“Stupefy!”

An intensely bright flash of light shone through Sherlock’s eyelids. He opened them to find John sinking into the snow, his wand slipping from his hand. Valencia was lying unmoving underneath a tree at the edge of the clearing. His legs finally freed, Sherlock slowly crawled over to John. Picking up his friend’s wand, he pointed it at the Death Eater’s prone figure.

“Incarcerous. Immobilus.” Sherlock then proceeded to shoot gold sparks into the air.

His energy spent, Sherlock rolled onto his back next to John. 

“It’s over,” Sherlock said.

“Everyone’s safe now,” John added. They stared up into the sky as snow began to fall.

“Your overcoming the curse…that…that was…impressive,” Sherlock stated.

“Well, I do have my moments,” John replied. “You can’t always be the impressive one.”

Silence fell. John’s breathing grew more and more ragged.

“Sherlock, I need you to tell…”

“No,” Sherlock said firmly. “You’re going to be fine, John.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sherlock. It doesn’t suit you.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John turn to look at him. Sherlock continued to stare up at the sky as John went on.

“Tell Mike he can keep the ten sickles he owes me, and he’d better be a damn good Healer for the both of us. And tell Lestrade he’s not actually a bloody awful Beater. He’s a great mate. Make sure to remind Molly that she has a lovely smile that she should show people more often,” John’s voice broke and he took a deep breath before continuing. “Tell her to keep Lestrade in line. Tell Sarah…tell Sarah I love her and I wish…I wish I could have spent more time with her.” John inhaled deeply, trying to fight the tears Sherlock knew were welling in his friend’s eyes. “Tell Clara she would have been a great sister-in-law. Tell Harry she can’t fall to pieces this time. I need her to look after dad. Tell her I believe in her and that I always…always have. And tell my dad…tell him…I’m sorry…so sorry. I don’t want to leave him.” John began to cry. Sherlock knew what was happening but he tried to deny it; he couldn’t accept the truth. He couldn’t accept John dying.

Sherlock turned his head to look at his friend and took the hand John was stretching out to him. Tears were rolling down John’s face and Sherlock realized his own face was wet.

“And I need you to tell…tell Sherlock Holmes…he is my best friend and it’s been brilliant. And he can’t…go back…to being alone.”

“Stop this, John. Please, just stop this,” Sherlock pleaded, desperately clenching John’s hand. John stared at him sadly from his good eye.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” John murmured as that eye closed. His hand went limp in Sherlock’s.

Sherlock let out a strangled cry and threw himself over John’s body, repeating the only healing spell he knew over and over. Seconds later, hands were attempting to pull him off John.

“No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend,” Sherlock muttered weakly at his unknown assailant.

“Sherlock, let go.” 

Sherlock recognized that voice. He looked up into Mycroft’s worried face. He released John and Healers began to swarm over his friend. Mycroft put his arms around Sherlock, and for the first time since he was a kid, Sherlock buried his face in his brother’s shoulder. 

He heard Sarah’s voice saying, “He needs medical attention over here” and Lestrade utter a “Bloody hell,” and then Sherlock slipped into the darkness of unconsciousness.


	9. All's Well in the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of 221B Ravenclaw Tower.

Sherlock woke to the smell of cinnamon. St. Mungo’s then. He had been to Muggle hospitals several times. They were bleak places with harsh fluorescent lights. St. Mungo’s was warm, the rooms glowing with firelight. Muggle hospitals smelled like antiseptic. Wizard hospitals smelled like bakeries.

He opened his eyes into narrow slits. Molly and Sarah were sitting on either side of his head, while Mike and Lestrade sat at the end of his bed. But where was John? And then it all came flooding back. John’s eyes closing, his hand going limp in Sherlock’s. Sherlock bolted upright, letting out a strangled cry.

“Where’s he?” He immediately regretted the action as his head began to spin. 

“Easy there, Sherlock,” Sarah said, gently pushing him back into the pillows. His eyes screwed shut in an attempt to stop the dizziness, Sherlock repeated, “Where’s John?”

“He’s down the hall,” Mike replied. 

“And?” Sherlock asked, afraid to verbalize the real question he wanted an answer to.

“He’s going to be fine, Sherlock,” Molly answered, patting his hand. Sherlock visibly relaxed, but then his eyes shot open, his gaze intense. 

“Take me to him.” 

“They won’t let us see him, mate,” Lestrade said.

“He’s not conscious yet,” Sarah explained. “And you’ve just been tortured. You’re in pretty sorry shape yourself.”

“I don’t care. Let me see him.” 

“No.”

“Sarah. Please.” Sarah’s gaze softened. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’ll take you the second they give us the go-ahead. But for now you’re staying in this bed.”

“Boring.”

“Don’t you want to know what happened while you were in the woods?” Lestrade asked.

“I suppose,” Sherlock sighed, but all four of them knew he was interested.

“After we split up, Mike and I went all over the castle looking for Flitwick. We couldn’t find him anywhere. McGonagall and Sprout were nowhere to be found either. We had no idea what to do until we saw Snape coming down the hall,” Molly paused for breath and Mike took up the story.

“We ran up to him, both of us talking at once. He just looked at us as if he was reading our minds, waved his wand, and sent a Patronus doe into the air.

‘Come with me,’ he said and we followed him out of the doors and onto the grounds. We didn’t say anything until we got to Hagrid’s. Snape rapped on the door, which started Fang barking like crazy. 

‘Evenin’, Severus,’ Hagrid said as he opened the door. ‘What’s all this about?’  
‘John Watson has been abducted by a former Death Eater who has infiltrated the school. Holmes has made the foolhardy decision to take her on by himself.’

‘Impossible,’ Hagrid said. ‘Does Dumbledore know about this?’

‘He’s away on Ministry business. I sent him a message, but it’s unlikely he’ll get it in time.’

‘Let me get my crossbow. You two,’ he said, pointing at me and Molly, ‘Stay here with Fang.’”

“And I said,” Molly interrupted Mike, “there was no way we were going to stay behind. Snape was obviously annoyed, but he didn’t say anything. We headed down to the Forest, Fang following close behind us. Luckily, the moon was so bright or we might have missed Greg.”

“Who?”

“Me, Sherlock,” Lestrade groaned before picking up the story from Molly. “I was still waiting at the forest’s edge. I was getting rather antsy, as you’d been gone a while. I told them all Sarah was further inside. Hagrid and Snape took the lead. With Hagrid and Fang, finding Sarah was no problem. We were about five minutes off the path when we saw your gold sparks and then we were hightailing it after you. We got to the clearing to find you collapsed over John. Dumbledore, Mycroft, and a team of Healers apparated in as soon as we saw you.”

“But you can’t apparate into Hogwarts,” Sherlock protested. 

“You can if you’re Dumbledore,” Mike replied.

“Valencia said Dumbledore was in Russia,” Sherlock stated.

“Apparently he was on his way back when he ran into Snape’s Patronus message. He had the feeling it was a hoax, since the Russians have never asked for Ministry help before and he didn’t think they would start now,” Mike added. Sherlock snorted in agreement.

“And where is my brother?”

“Mrs. Hudson took him home for some rest. He’s been at your side for the past two days,” Molly said.

“How brotherly of him,” Sherlock sniffed, though they could all tell he was secretly pleased.

There was silence for a few minutes.

“Sherlock,” Molly said suddenly. “Do you think you’d like some tea?” He nodded and she proceeded to wave her wand, conjuring a full tea set with a piping hot kettle out of thin air. 

Sherlock held his cup in both hands for a moment, savoring the warmth seeping into his fingers. He leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes.

His awakening seemed to improve his friends’ spirits, and they began to swap stories about the past few days. Sherlock kept his eyes closed and listened. John should be here with them. He felt a pang as he thought it. Why was he taking so long to wake up? He was hardier than Sherlock. What if Valencia had damaged him somehow? Maybe he wouldn’t be the same when he woke up. John could be an amnesiac or paralyzed. Sherlock was drawn out of his thoughts by Molly asking, “Does anyone know what happened to that horrible woman?”

“A team of Aurors came with the Healers,” Mike replied. 

“Do you think Sherlock and John will have to be at her trial?” Sarah asked worriedly.

“They practically have a whole book of charges against her,” Lestrade said. “She’s already been locked up. I saw it in the Prophet this morning.”

“That’s a relief,” Sarah said.

“Yes, I would be quite happy to never see that woman again,” Sherlock added, involuntarily shuddering at the memory of her sadistic smile.

Silence fell again.

“Sherlock,” Molly started tentatively. “What…what did she do to you and John? You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but…” she trailed off. Sherlock looked at their faces, which managed to simultaneously express both curiosity and concern.

Sherlock took a long sip of tea and cleared his throat.

“Physical torture mostly. She’s quite adept at the Cruciatus Curse. She used it on me three times. At least five on John. After that, she…she got inside of my head somehow. She can make you see your worst fears, live them out. Then, John stopped her. Told her to kill him already, leave me alone. She listened. Put John under the Imperious Curse so she could watch him kill me. His wand was in my face, but at the last second, he turned and stunned her. He overcame it somehow. Then John was dying, he said some lovely stuff about all of us, and then you know the rest,” Sherlock said, addressing the last part to the ceiling.

“I hope that miserable bitch rots in her cell,” Sarah spat. They all stared at her, taken aback.

“I’m serious. She doesn’t deserve to ever see the light of day again.”

“She’s am empty person,” Molly said thoughtfully. 

“What’re you talking about, Molls?” Lestrade asked.

“Valencia. She had nothing to live for except hate. She had no love or friendship. Hatred was the only thing that filled her, but it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.” 

“That’s beautiful,” Lestrade said as he reached for Molly’s hand. Sarah slumped in her chair.

“I don’t want to understand her. I just want to hate her,” Sarah mumbled. 

Molly started to say something in response when the door opened and Dumbledore entered the room. They all sat upright in their chairs. Dumbledore chuckled.

“At ease students. At ease. How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?”

“Fairly awful to be honest, sir, but better.”

“I am glad to hear there’s been at least some improvement.” Dumbledore waved his wand and pulled up a seat at the foot of Sherlock’s bed.

“Your actions of several days ago were very brave. Foolhardy, but brave. Without your intervention, Mr. Watson most likely would have died. 25 points to each of your houses for your courage.” Dumbledore frowned as he finished. “I am sorry that I was not here for you in your hour of need, and for that, you have my apologies. It just goes to show that even wise men may still be fooled.”

“Is Olivia doing alright, sir?” Molly asked.

“She’s rather shaken up, understandably, but she is relieved to be free of her mother’s shadow. She should be able to return to school by the end of the week. And now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I would like to speak to Mr. Holmes alone for a moment. Please don’t go far.”

The others shot Sherlock puzzled looks before filing out into the hall. 

“Sir, am I being expelled?” Sherlock asked when his friends had closed the door behind them. Dumbledore looked amused.

“Expelled my dear boy? Whatever for?”

“Breaking school rules. Endangering the lives of my friends. Failing to alert the Ministry or professors that a vengeful Death Eater was on the grounds.” Dumbledore chuckled.

“Hardly, Mr. Holmes. I am not going to expel you. I owe you for preserving the safety of the school. Expelling you would be a poor way for me to repay you for such a feat. No, Mr. Holmes, I am worried about you.”

“Me? John’s the one who got the worst of it.”

Dumbledore looked at Sherlock over the top of his half-moon glasses.

“I know what Valencia Rookthorn is renowned for, the kind of torture she likes to inflict on her victims. She made you see terrible things, didn’t she?”

An image of John’s broken and bloody body hitting the ground flashed before Sherlock’s eyes. The look in his eyes must have been enough of an answer, and Dumbledore continued.

“I’m no expert, but talking can help, whether it is to me, another professor, or Mr. Watson. In my experience, words have an incredible power to harm, but an even more powerful ability to heal,” Dumbledore rose as he finished, crossed to the door, and opened it.   
“You may all come in now. And Miss Sawyer, please bring in that wheelchair. I should have told you this right away, but I knew the second I announced it you would no longer pay any attention to what I had to say. Mr. Watson is awake. You may all go see him now.”

Molly and Sarah let out relieved sighs. Lestrade and Mike clapped each other on the back. Sherlock felt as if the weight of the universe had been lifted off his shoulders.

Lestrade and Molly were helping Sherlock into the wheelchair when Dumbledore spoke up again.  
“One last thing. In the absence of Mr. Watson’s voice of reason, I must remind you to behave, Mr. Holmes. The Healers have made it quite clear they will send you back to your room if it seems you are overexerting yourself.” Sherlock nodded, impatient to see John for himself.

The trip down the hall seemed to last ages. When they finally got to John’s room, Molly held the door open and Lestrade pushed him through. John grinned up at them from his pillows. 

Sherlock hadn’t seen himself lately, and he was sure he looked ghastly, but John looked even worse. His face was ghost-like in its paleness. The dark circles under his eyes only made his skin look whiter. Exhaustion showed in every line of his body. It looked like the pillows were the only thing preventing him from sinking into the bed.

“You okay, Sherlock?” John asked raspily. Sherlock resisted the temptation to roll his eyes in relief. John looked worse than death, but was still worried about him. It was ridiculous.

“Yes, are you?”

“Been better.” Sarah went over and gingerly kissed her boyfriend. John smiled up at her. They all joined Harry, Clara, and Dr. Watson around John’s bed. Sherlock was given the place of honor by his head. They all began to talk, recounting to John what had happened while he was in the woods. When they pressed John for details about what had happened before he went into the forest, he only said, “I don’t have the energy to go into it right now.” They let it drop and called on Sherlock to fill in how he had solved the case.

After his part, Sherlock fell silent. He hadn’t realized how truly exhausted he was until now. With the comforting lull of his friends’ voices and the fire crackling in the room, he was in very real danger of falling asleep. His ears perked up, though, when Harry mentioned her watch. 

“I was doing some shopping in Diagon Alley the other day. Some bloke ran into me when I had my hands full of bags. He must have nicked it from my pocket. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it was gone. Thanks for bringing it back, Mike.”

The day wore on. Harry and Clara left first with promises to return. The rest of them stayed until a Healer came to kick them out. Sherlock dug in his heels—figuratively speaking, as he was still in the wheelchair—ready to fight to stay with John. To his surprise, the Healer waved her wand and conjured up a second bed. 

“Your brother said you would recover faster if we kept the two of you together, but you both need rest, so no getting rambunctious.” John and Sherlock nodded solemnly. They were silent for a while after everyone had left for the night.

“So, you’ve got questions,” John said.

“Only if you want to answer them.”

John let out a long sigh through his nose.

“First off, sorry for being a complete prick in the owlery.”

“You were under a lot of stress.”

“Doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that. After our fight, I went for a really long walk.”

“You shouldn’t have gone off alone.”

“I know, I know. I calmed down a little, and then I bumped into Sarah. We made plans to meet in the library later. I rounded up some of the team, and we had an impromptu Quidditch session. We went over some formations and strategies. When I came back from a late dinner, the letter was hovering over the desk. I ripped it open and saw the watch. I didn’t even think that it might be a ploy. I thought Harry was a goner, so I went after her, but I walked, just in case you came along later.”

“Which was very clever.”

“When I got to the woods, her daughter was waiting to lead me in. I got to the clearing. Valencia didn’t even give me a chance to defend myself. My wand was out of my hand before I could make a move. She froze my feet to the ground, taunted me, laughed in my face, told me how my sister was fine, for now, how dumb I had been for believing her little trick with the watch. She told me she hated my eyes, that they reminded her of my mother’s. She kept going on about how my mother had ruined her life, stolen her child, killed her family. When I told her my mother had saved Olivia from a life of unhappiness, she didn’t take it well. And that’s when the torture started.”

John’s eyes darkened.

“I don’t even know how to describe it, though I guess I don’t have to explain it to you. It was awful. The worst part was the feeling it was never going to end, that it was going to crush you, but you never broke even though you wanted to. I don’t even know when I finally passed out.”

“The fifth time.”

“What?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “You lasted five times. She told me.”

“What a sick bastard, bragging about it. After that, she did something to my head. I was stuck in the middle of this living nightmare.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“She did that to you too?”

“Yes. What did you see?” Sherlock asked tentatively.

John swallowed heavily.

“I was a Healer, but no matter what I did my patients kept dying. I was useless. Soon, I was surrounded by dead bodies. As I walked through them, I would see people I knew who were still alive. I would stop to help them, but they would die in my arms. Mike, Greg, Molly, Clara, Sarah, Harry, my dad, you. I lost all of you, and it was all my fault.”

John was unconsciously gripping his sheets in his hands.

“It wasn’t real, John.”

“I know, but it felt like it.”

Silence fell.  
“Do you want to talk about what you saw?” John asked slowly. Sherlock really didn’t, but he remembered Dumbledore’s advice. 

“It was similar to yours. I was trying to solve crimes, but I couldn’t. I lost my ability to notice details and make deductions. I was ordinary. And then people started dying because I wasn’t clever enough to save them. Mike, Molly, Lestrade, Sarah. They all died because I failed. Mycroft was poisoned, and I couldn’t cook up an antidote. And you…you jumped off the astronomy tower. Your body landed at my feet.”

“Christ, Sherlock,” John said, looking at him in horror.

“It was terrible.”

John was silent for a moment.

“You had a hole in your shoulder. Something had blasted clean through you. There was so much blood. I can see it when I close my eyes.”

“Me too,” Sherlock said quietly.

They sat, lost in their reveries.

“Thanks by the way, for coming in after me.”

“You would have done the same.”

“Doesn’t make it any less impressive,” John replied with a yawn. 

“You should sleep,” Sherlock stated.

“So should you,” John replied.

“Well then, good night, John.”

“Night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock waited for a few moments until the sound of John’s even breathing filled the room. He settled into his pillows and fell into a dreamless sleep.  
***

“If you two could move a bit faster,” Sherlock shouted up the stairs of the girl’s dormitory, “we might be able to get to the pitch before tomorrow.”

“Look who’s changed his tune,” Lestrade commented.

“Sherlock the Quidditch fanatic,” Mike agreed.

“I’m not a fanatic. I have a slight interest in the sport. Now hurry up,” Sherlock added with a shout.

“Alright, alright,” Sarah said, coming down the stairs with Molly. Both were sporting excessive amounts of blue and bronze face paint. Sarah carried a sign proclaiming, “Watson’s a Winner,” while Molly held a banner reading, “Eagles for the Cup.”

“Now that I am 100 years old, let’s get moving,” Sherlock said, striding out of the common room. Ravenclaw and Slytherin were facing off for the second time that year, but this time, with the Quidditch Cup on the line. Roughly three quarters of the student body was rooting for Ravenclaw to win, but the odds were against them. 

John needed, no, deserved this victory. Sherlock even let Molly and Sarah draw two stripes of Ravenclaw paint beneath his eyes to show his support. As they walked down to the pitch, they passed a group of Slytherin first year girls. Most of them shot them dirty, but nervous glares. Sherlock’s eyes were drawn to the blonde girl in the group who was wearing a blue and bronze pin emblazoned with an R. Olivia Marcus smiled shyly over at them.

“For John,” she said, pointing at the button. Sherlock nodded at her. She had come to visit them several times at St. Mungo’s. She and John had hit it off right away. Sherlock had found her tolerable enough and surprisingly intelligent, though far too kind for a Slytherin.

They finally made it into the stands, watching as both teams took to the sky.

“And it’s déjà vu all over again,” Lee Jordan shouted. “Slytherin and Ravenclaw will battle it out for the Quidditch Cup. Watson returns to the pitch after his near run-in with death, during which he showed great courage and tenacity, which can’t be said for Slytherin’s captain.”

“Jordan!”  
“Sorry professor. Anyway, will Ravenclaw be able to wrest the win away from Slytherin, which has been undefeated after its initial loss to the Eagles? There’s the whistle. Let the match begin!”

The game moved faster than Jordan’s mouth. He stumbled several times trying to keep up. The players were even more of a blur than usual, both teams playing as if their lives depended on the outcome of this game. The teams matched each other point-for-point. After both sides reached 260, the fouls became more flagrant. The Ravenclaw fans let out a groan as Eppley was penalized on a weak call, and Slytherin pulled ahead by 30 points on the foul shots and a following goal. Soon, they were up by 50 points. The green-clad Slytherins were screaming with excitement. Sarah and Lestrade were scowling, Molly was twisting her braid in her hands, and Sherlock was fidgeting. Mike, as usual, was calm and laid back.

There was a shout as John began diving. For one horrible moment, Sherlock thought his friend had lost control of his broom. But then he saw he was covering Neals. They both pulled up from the dive, Neals holding the Snitch in the air triumphantly. 

Ravenclaw’s supporters burst into a wall of noise. Molly and Sarah were both hugging Sherlock, but he was too busy cheering to care. John came flying into the stands, followed by the other members of the team. He fell into them with a whooping yell, grinning harder than Sherlock had ever seen. He kissed Sarah and them Molly for good measure. He pushed Lestrade away with a laugh when he offered John his cheek. John clasped Sherlock’s shoulder and their eyes met. The moment was too full for words.

Their eye contact broke as they were swept away by the raucous crowd of Ravenclaws. The tide carried them into the Great Hall where it broke into thunderous applause as Dumbledore handed John the Cup. The wave of fans then conducted them to Ravenclaw Tower where the maddest party its walls had ever seen commenced. Mrs. Hudson had wisely left her frame for the night. People from every house came through the doors, bearing Honeydukes’ sweets, enchanted fireworks, and several dozen bottles of firewhiskey, which Sherlock tried unsuccessfully to avoid: Lestrade spiked several of his drinks.

At 4 in the morning, Sherlock was feeling pleasantly mellow, although he sensed he would regret this party later in the day. Most of the revelers had left. The ones that had stayed were in various positions of sleep on the floor or furniture. Mike was passed out in an armchair. Lestrade had his head in Molly’s lap and she was sleeping with her back to the couch. Sarah snoozed in John’s arms while John absentmindedly stroked her hair.

“One more year, Sherlock,” John said sleepily. “And then what will we do with our lives, without this place?” 

“You’ll be a successful Healer who helps me solve crimes, and I’ll be the world’s only consulting wizard detective.” 

John chuckled. 

“That sounds brilliant, actually.” 

“Of course it does. It was my idea.” 

John shot him a bleary-eyed glare. 

“If I wasn’t so exhausted, I would have some snappy response to that.” 

“Oh please, John, don’t blame the exhaustion. We both know the real issue here.” 

“And what’s that.” 

“Your inferior intellect.” 

John just grinned. 

“Well, apparently you couldn’t survive without me and my inferior intellect or you wouldn’t have come racing into the forest after me.” 

“Don’t take it personally. I’m a show off who objects to murder on principle. I never miss an opportunity to look good.” 

John snorted. 

“You are on fine form tonight, Sherlock. Fine form.” John yawned. “All this verbal sparring is wearing me out.” John settled back into the couch, his eyes closed. “We’ll finish this tomorrow.” 

Within minutes, he was asleep. Sherlock surveyed his unconscious friends with a look bordering on overt fondness. He repositioned himself so his legs were hanging over the arm of his chair and closed his eyes, ready for the promise of adventure and friendship that lurked in the countless tomorrows that lay ahead. The game was on, and he and John were ready to play. They always would be.

This particular story has reached its end, but I am considering writing a follow-up oneshot of sorts set during the Battle of Hogwarts where John and Sherlock come back to their alma mater to fight against Voldemort and his forces. Stay tuned for that and thanks for joining me on this adventure!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular story has reached its end, but I am considering writing a follow-up oneshot of sorts set during the Battle of Hogwarts where John and Sherlock come back to their alma mater to fight against Voldemort and his forces. Stay tuned for that and thanks for joining me on this adventure!


End file.
